


twist into your shape

by kakkoweeb



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bodyswap, Canon Era, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Unreliable Narrator, canon era but not entirely compliant, contains a bunch of other characters, or more accurately: Freaky Friday AU, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 91,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakkoweeb/pseuds/kakkoweeb
Summary: The only thing better than sweets were sweets containing paper that told you whether your future would be good or bad--or in Kageyama and Oikawa's case, paper that somehow caused you to live inside each other's bodies.





	1. a miracle will take place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy first multi-chap work for ao3 hola. this is a freaky friday au (sort of) where freaky friday refers to that one lindsay lohan body swap movie, but i'm only calling it that because i borrowed the fortune cookie passage and would like people to acknowledge that i didn't make it lol
> 
> updates fluctuate from 'sonic' fast to 'papa from stranger things' slow lmao. all titles are taken from english translations of japanese songs. also does looking at ao3 on mobile really mess with italicized text or is that just me?

Oikawa Tooru awoke that morning groggy and confused. Even through his closed eyes he could see the sunlight creeping its way into his room, as per usual, but today, this early morning disturbance wasn’t accompanied by the sound of nails scratching a chalkboard. That might have seemed like a good thing, but it really wasn’t—not when it was the alarm he’d set for himself after one particular day when he’d woken up to the sound of Iwaizumi abandoning him to make it to school on time.

The unpleasant noise never failed to wake him up, but that was assuming it actually played. In the sleepy haze that was his mind he struggled to recall whether he placed his phone by his bedside last night like he was supposed to. Maybe he’d forgotten to set it, maybe it wasn’t time to get up yet and he still had a few more minutes of peace. Either way, eyes still closed, he slowly inched to the edge of his bed and allowed a single hand to aimlessly grope around for it—

—before promptly falling off.

Now if the sun hadn’t been enough to wake him, this definitely was. Falling off the bed first thing in the morning was never fun; everyone with a Western-style bed knew that, but what made it so jolting for Oikawa was that he didn’t. He didn't know that because he didn’t have a Western-styled bed—he slept flat on the ground, a complete stranger to any sensation related to beds that dictated otherwise. But here he was, on the floor after experiencing the impossible, eyes wide open now, staring into the space that should have been his bedroom.

It wasn’t.

He’d been sleeping on a futon for as long as he could remember, and he’d decided to move it right at the centre of the bedroom, right next to a desk where he could easily crawl over and use his computer or read his books by a lamplight. His uniform always hung on the wall ready for wearing during weekdays, and on the weekends, he could also quite easily crawl to the dresser beside him and pull out anything that might keep him warm enough to go outside.

The room he was in was a little bit smaller, with plain white walls and a dull-looking carpet. The desk was also right beside the bed, but rather than a computer, it held a mess of what looked to be magazines littered on the surface and a swivel chair right before it. What most concerned him, however, was that a black gakuran hung on the wall by the foot of the bed.

That definitely wasn’t Aoba Johsai’s uniform, and though quite a number of schools in the prefecture made use of the same type, only one of them popped into his mind.

Filled with an inexplicable dread now, Oikawa hopped to his feet, looking down at his body and realizing that he was in a pair of matching pyjamas he certainly didn’t own. The cotton was soft and a plain white, a great contrast to his hands, peeking out of the sleeves, skin a little bit darker than he remembered. The callouses from volleyball were still present, thank god, but his nails were extremely neat and better-kempt than they usually were, almost like he’d gotten them done.

Something strange was going on, definitely, and his first instinct was to survey the room for any sort of mirror, crazy as it sounded. But the bed wasn’t his, the room wasn’t his, the clothes weren’t his, the integumentary system (for Christ’s sake) wasn’t his, and so the least he could do for his sanity was check his reflection, to be assured that at least the face that would greet him was still his.

But it wasn’t.

It was Kageyama Tobio’s.

 

* * *

 

Roughly twenty-four hours before this identity crisis, Sugawara Koushi could be found on the quiet streets of Miyagi, bathing in the sunlight despite the falling of light snow like a legitimate morning person probably would, making his way to school like he did every other ordinary day in his life. He didn’t mean to brag, but things had been going rather smoothly for him lately; he was always being commended for his top-tier performance in class, and his beloved volleyball team was on its way to Nationals, training more rigorously than ever before. Considering how happy he always was, he may as well have been a morning person from the very beginning.

And it was precisely this happiness that had him looking around too happily at his surroundings—things he saw every waking day he walked to school—taking in the scenery like it was new. He couldn’t help smiling at the birds perched on the transmission lines high above him, couldn’t help but whistle along when they seemed to converse among themselves.

Similarly, he couldn’t help but approach the moment he laid his eyes on a convenience store with a tarp advertising a ‘BIG SALE TODAY’. Not that he particularly wanted to buy anything but sales were always fun and it looked like the store had a bunch of interesting goods to give away, considering the amount of people despite the time. So he bid the adorable birds goodbye and entered the establishment, telling himself he was just there to browse. And for a while, he was.

It was the fortune cookies that eventually did him in. The only thing better than sweets were sweets containing paper that told you whether your future would be good or bad and it would be pretty fun to bring it into club later on, to see the looks on his teammate’s faces after they read and mused about what they received. The shelf was down to the last two bags, it seemed—two bags sitting beside each other—and so he lightly jogged toward it and made a grab for the one on the right.

And at the exact same time, someone reached for the one on the left.

Perhaps because of his strange tendency to look at everything that morning, perhaps not, Sugawara ended up locking eyes with the supposed stranger to his left, only to find that it wasn’t a stranger at all. Not completely at least. He didn’t exactly have a name he could associate with Aoba Johsai’s Number 3 but they both stopped, both seemed to recognize each other anyway.

“Oh.” He spoke first. “Hey.”

“Hello,” Suga replied, putting on one of his friendlier smiles. He glanced at the bag touching his fingertips. “Getting cookies?”

“Yep. Figured we could all use a little guidance in life. Plus, it’s on sale, so I’m sold.”

“Same.” Usually Suga could boast about a little more conversational prowess, but somehow, talking to the wing spiker of a rival volleyball club they’d beaten a few months back was harder than the actual beating them a few months back. He gestured feebly to the counter. “I guess I’ll go pay for this.”

Said wing spiker didn’t seem to be carrying the same burden. “Sure,” he said, far too casually, and it was only when Suga was about two steps away that he continued with, “Congratulations on making Nationals, by the way.”

It wasn’t really something Suga wanted to discuss with anyone who came from or supported Seijoh, because although he couldn’t be happier that his own team had emerged Miyagi’s champions, he was well aware that Seijoh had been thirsting for the chance to beat Shiratorizawa and go to Tokyo for three years and, unlike Karasuno, had a habit of coming  _extremely close_  before being let down in the end. But he sent a decent nod in Seijoh’s spiker’s direction anyway, and accompanied it with a gracious smile. “Thank you.”

And thankfully, that was the end of that.

As was the plan, that afternoon, he’d brought the pack of cookies to the rest of the team and happily watched as they each cracked one open in the hope of getting good luck. Suga himself had gotten something quite generic (“Don’t pursue happiness—create it”) and so he found he’d much rather laugh at Hinata’s wholehearted agreement with his fortune (“Your shoes will make you happy today”), Tanaka’s excitement and then confusion about his (“You will marry your lover”), and Asahi’s downcast face upon reading his (“Sometimes you just need to lay on the floor”).

Standing next to Tsukishima, whose brows were furrowed as he stared down at the slip of paper he’d pulled out (“All your fingers can’t be of the same length”), Suga crossed his arms. “I actually ran into one of Seijoh’s players buying a pack too,” he told them all, and they seemed to come to attention at the mention of Seijoh.

“Oh?” said Yamaguchi (“Everyone agrees. You are the best”). “Which one?”

“Number three. I don’t know his name.” Suga shrugged. “He congratulated us for beating Shiratorizawa.”

Daichi (“To be old and wise, you must first be young and stupid”) hummed, pocketing his cookie in favour of picking up a ball sitting by his feet. “That’s nice of him. Was he gonna give the cookies away to the rest of his team too?”

“Maybe, but I’m not sure. I mean, volleyball season is over for them.”

An odd crack resounded from behind all of them and Suga turned to see Kageyama (...oh, he hadn't read out a fortune yet, Suga quickly realized), standing alone and completely still, eyes focused on nothing in particular. His cookie seemed to be in his grasp, but he only kept it there without even looking at it.

"Kageyama, aren’t you gonna check what you got?” Suga asked, staring curiously at the dark expression on his face. Strictly speaking, his expression was never anything else, and he was innately a boy of few words (some days), but there was something different about the severe face and the silence today, at that very moment.

He shook his head. “I’ll look at it later,” Kageyama said, and he shoved the probably slightly broken cookie in his pocket.

“Why, are you afraid that you’re gonna get a really bad one and we’re gonna make fun of you for it?” Hinata taunted, leering up at Kageyama as if his words would make up for the difference in their heights, and they usually did until Kageyama rose to his bait and overpowered him.

Today though, he only got an exasperated roll of eyes and a, “Shut up, dumbass,” with only about half the regular conviction, and Hinata looked about as bewildered as Suga felt when Kageyama walked away from the rest of them, marking this as one of the two times he’d ever left the gym in the middle of practice.

 

At about the same time that day, Hanamaki had distributed the cookies to his three favourite friends (though he’d never admit that out loud). Truly, their season was over, and that was incredibly frustrating as it was sad, but they didn’t bother talking about it anymore and simply enjoyed one another’s company, walking home together while the sun was still up (albeit covered by clouds and the white of the winter) rather than just relying on the illumination the street lights gave in the evening darkness after an afternoon's worth of practice.

There were only four of them, however, and about fifteen cookies inside the bag, so each of them had cracked and read from exactly three for the sake of equality and ended up dissatisfied more than half the time.

“So get this,” said Hanamaki (“You are a lover of words. One day you will write a book”, “It never pays to kick a skunk”, “You believe in the goodness of mankind”), holding the bag with the remaining three cookies in one hand and his disappointing slips of paper in the other. “I ran into Karasuno’s Number 2 earlier while getting these things.”

“Refreshing-kun?” Oikawa (“Nothing seems impossible to you”, “Emotion is energy in motion”, “Enjoyed the meal? Buy one to go too”) asked.

“I don’t know what you want me to say to that. What does Refreshing-kun even mean?”

“What’d he say?” Not bothering to give Oikawa the chance to justify his ridiculous nicknames, Iwaizumi (“Patience is bitter but its fruit is sweet”, “Poverty is no disgrace”, “Lend your money and lose your friend”) looked to Hanamaki.

“Not much." Hanamaki shrugged. "I congratulated him for beating Shiratorizawa but he seemed awkward.”

Matsukawa (“In case of fire, keep calm, pay bill, and run”, “You are broad-minded and socially-active”, “You will kiss your crush ohhh lalahh”) let out a short laugh. “Well, duh. We’re the sad saps they beat to get to Shiratorizawa in the first place.”

“Mattsun, don’t say it like that, I’m still frustrated,” said Oikawa, and the frustration did indeed show on his face.

“You say that but you came to their game,” Iwaizumi pointed out. “That, and you sounded pretty pleased knowing Shiratorizawa lost.”

“Doesn’t mean I don't want to be the one to beat them anymore.”

“Come on, it’s been a few months,” Matsukawa said, offering a consoling grin and wrapping a single arm around his captain, who was less than happy to receive the affection for once. “You should be proud your precious kouhai ‘Tobio’ is going places. He learned everything he knows from you, didn’t he?”

He did, sort of, but Oikawa was never that shallow and he could never be light-hearted about matters concerning his once-junior, they found. And today, just like every other day Kageyama happened to slither his way into their conversation—not that it happened often—Oikawa’s mood seemed to dramatically drop. He allowed his posture to sag for a while, crushed under the weight of Matsukawa’s arm, until he was wordlessly, abruptly reaching for another cookie in Hanamaki’s hands.

“Hey, no fair!” the latter cried, but didn’t bother putting up any sort of fight.

“Something to take home,” Oikawa only said, placing the thing safely inside his pocket. “Maybe if I pray over it, it’ll tell me something I actually want to hear.”

 

* * *

 

Kageyama really shouldn’t have been thinking about his amazing, older rival setter as he headed for the bathroom, because he'd already been defeated and what did it matter that Kageyama probably still hadn't quite measured up to the level of skill he exhibited no matter what team he was on? But he was.

 

Oikawa really shouldn’t have been thinking about his ever-improving, younger rival setter as he headed home, because although their team had won, he undeniably still had a long way to go and what did it matter that he was probably going to work to keep improving without slowing down and leave Oikawa in the dust? But he was.

 

It was kind of pathetic, really. He knew he idolized the guy to some degree (some), but to be reminded that Seijoh's volleyball season had ended and to end up in some sort of state of brooding at the thought of Oikawa's high school volley having ended, how he might have felt about that, what he planned to do next? That could probably be considered normal if he was equally concerned about Iwaizumi, or Kindaichi or the rest of the team he'd have to face the following year--but he wasn't.

 

It was kind of ridiculous, actually. He knew he always made a big deal out of Kageyama and where he stood in the spectrum of skilled setters, but to be reminded that Karasuno was advancing to Nationals and to end up in some sort of state of brooding at the thought of how Kageyama was going to do, how much he was going to learn, where Oikawa would stand with him? It could still sort of be considered normal, especially if he was overflowing with rage and envy and bitterness--but he wasn't.

 

What he was was standing in a stall in the bathroom, all alone and away from his team despite it being in the middle of practice, clutching a fortune cookie in his hand while unable to wish away a certain someone's face from his thoughts that refused to shut up.

 

What he was was standing by his dresser in his room, all alone and away from his friends despite it being a lovely afternoon to be outside, clutching a fortune cookie in his hand while unable to drive out a certain someone's face from his mind that wouldn't seem to stop yelling at him.

 

He figured he needed a distraction; that thinking about something else, something more trivial, could perhaps make things better, turn them back to what was normal. Desperate for any one such feat, he looked to the cookie in his hand,

cracked,

unopened,

and thought that he might as well indulge himself in false promises and generalized positivity for the sake of a little self-preservation, maybe some comfort, or at the very least, a little laugh. So with this in mind, he shattered the thing

further,

completely, in one quick motion,

pulled out the little paper that would supposedly tell him his fate for the near future, and tried not to make too confused a face as he read:

 

_A journey soon begins,_

_its prize reflected in another’s eyes._

_When what you see is what you lack,_

_then selfless love will change you back._

 

Odd, was what first came to mind. The passage was in English, just like the rest had been,

and perhaps because Kageyama sucked at the language

and though Oikawa was proficient as average students went

he couldn't say he understood what exactly was written. It was definitely longer, definitely less straightforward than what his

teammates

best friends

had gotten, and at this point, he wasn't even sure if it could be considered a fortune, let alone classify it as good or bad.

Great. Even a cookie made to entertain and relate to people from all walks of life had no concrete wisdom to give him. Maybe he was just that much of a lost cause already.

 

Suddenly the ground was moving and his heart was stuttering out of time.

Kageyama

Oikawa

looked around him, vision high on the sight of shaking doors and windows and walls and then his body was moving on its own,

backing up against the wall,

crouching down onto the floor,

trying to take leveled breaths even as he stumbled on his feet, even as he watched the world around him wobble and felt the floor trying to bring him crashing to the ground. There hadn't been an announcement about any sort of disaster striking the prefecture and as it was, his life was flashing before his eyes as he struggled to keep a handhold on anything in sight that might keep him from getting carried by the tremors.

 

But then just as quickly as they came, these tremors stopped.

Still taking heavy breaths, he brought himself stably on his feet and took another good look around. Nothing was damaged, thankfully, and it didn't seem as though any other kind of quakes were going to follow, and so he

pocketed the cookie and headed back to the gym

tossed the cookie in the trash and headed out of the house

in the hope of hearing any kind of fuss being made about the phenomenon, because considering who was currently in the general area, the lack thereof was unsettling.

And it was equally unsettling when he discovered that nobody else had felt it at all.

"There wasn't any earthquake,"

said Hinata, already in a running stance and clutching a ball to throw up to be tossed.

said his next-door neighbour, who was out watering the plants on her front porch.

"Are you sure you didn't just imagine it?"

He was sure. He saw it, he heard it, he felt it, and he had never been more sure of anything in his life (how was anyone supposed to imagine an earthquake, anyway?), but he knew better than to press it. What mattered was that he and everyone around him was safe and that it wouldn't happen again. Who knew? Maybe he really had just imagined it or maybe it was something in himself--maybe he'd gotten dizzy or had been failed by his vision and the resulting confusion made him delusional, made him feel and see things that weren't happening.

With no better explanation, he was content to just leave it at that.

 

But here's the truth:

1\. There really had been an earthquake, for both of them, just the both of them, and neither of them should have brushed it off as nothing.

2\. Neither of them should have waited to be alone before reading what was written on their cookies.

3\. Neither of them should have gone to sleep that night, comfortably wrapped in their blankets and complacency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one chapter in and i’m already dead please look at [these fortunes](http://www.fortunecookiemessage.com/archive.php) they get more and more ridiculous after every page. writing is truly an adventure
> 
> also i am so sorry about the sucky formatting at the end, but it had to be done. more as a literary aid than anything but if it was an inconvenience, i apologize. i can't promise that it's never going to happen again tho (lmao) but it's not going to be a frequent thing.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [talk to me i'm lonely](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kakkoweeb/profile)


	2. if you can exist without hesitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A concrete, first-hand record (the first of many) of Kageyama Tobio's suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay apparently it's not possible for updates to come 'sonic' fast but i won't let all of them be 'papa from stranger things' slow either. i, here and now, also vow to update this fic as much as i can before i am plunged back into satan's rear end (better known as school) because once i am inside, it's gonna take me 34920 more years to crawl back out.
> 
> fair warning: they've swapped bodies so referring to them is going to be a little difficult from here on out. i'm certainly not going to write 'kageyama in oikawa's body' every time i bring him up, so i experimented with the narration a bit. do tell me if it's confusing or not to your satisfaction and i'll try to work on it!

Kageyama Tobio was dashing through the streets of Miyagi—or at least, he _thought_ he was still Kageyama Tobio, because he wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to make out of waking up in a different room in a different house wielding someone else’s face. Not just any face, either, but Oikawa Tooru’s face. A rival’s face, a face he’d seen in dreams both okay and horrible, a face that always looked either smug or extremely pissed off every time he saw it. Earlier, however, when he’d stared at it in the mirror, it moved however he wanted it to, moved according to whatever he did, and it took a few minutes of making funny faces for him to accept that, currently, it was his face.

Accepting it didn’t necessarily mean remaining calm about it, however. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say he’d screamed his lungs out for the majority of the time he’d stared at himself, and the only thing that had stopped him was an older woman barging into the room, demanding to know what all the ruckus was about, and calling him Tooru. He’d frozen up then, staring at the unfamiliar woman while she glared back, confused and bothered, until she’d decided to leave all the while telling him to start getting ready for school.

How he was supposed to get ready when he was in someone else’s room and presented with someone else’s clothes was beyond him, but he snatched the preppy-looking uniform off of its place on the wall anyway and struggled to put it on. Mostly he got everything right, but then the red tie was in his hands and as he realized he had no idea how to put it on, he also realized that he wasn’t even _supposed to be_ putting it on and then, in his panic, without even having fixed his hair, he was grabbing the nearest bag and a scarf neatly folded on top of the dresser, running out of the house despite the smell of breakfast in the air, and hoping for the best.

Now, ten minutes after his departure, he realized he had no idea where he was and no idea where he could possibly go.

_What the hell._

As he caught his breath, he kept a tight handhold on the tie in one hand and ran the other through his hair—that wasn’t his hair but the hair currently on his head that also, similarly, wasn’t his. It was surprisingly soft and smooth despite his not having washed it that morning and so he kept his fingers there, took a few more breaths before yanking on the brown locks as if to test if he would feel any pain. Even to any outsider, his wince was probably the perfect indication that he did.

Confused, helpless, and inexplicably lost (taken two ways), Kageyama could do nothing but press forward, to keep walking in the hope that the path he was currently treading would lead him somewhere. He’d never been to the Oikawa residence before (he assumed that the house he was in had been the Oikawa residence, judging from the fact that he was moving using Oikawa’s body at the moment) but looking around now, he could have sworn his surroundings were familiar, as if going a few steps further would lead him somewhere he could actually name. And, indeed, several few steps later, he was stopped in front of an old, snow-covered building—once a friend, now a sight for sore eyes.

_Kitagawa Daiichi._

He looked up at his old school, cursing in his mind when all sorts of unpleasant memories started flooding back into his system. It had only been a year since he’d last entered the place but even if a year turned into fifteen, it would probably still make him as sick to the stomach as he was now, would probably still send awful sensations coursing through his body at the thought of everyone that mattered turning their back on him. He shuddered, but he did his best to push that thought away; his second and third years were terrible but the first wasn’t too bad. Not for him, at least.

First year was when he’d first met Oikawa, he remembered, and subsequently, he realized that this was the one thing that he and the boy whose body he was inhabiting had in common: they’d both gone to Kitagawa Daiichi for junior high, even if they _had_ gone their separate ways for high school. What an incredible coincidence that all his aimless running had taken him here.

And right as he thought that, something vibrated from inside the bag slung on his shoulder.

Slightly shaken, he rummaged inside the thing until a buzzing phone was in his stiff and cold hands. He glanced briefly at the unknown—but familiar—number displayed onscreen before swiping at the green phone button, wondering how well he’d be able to speak after having screamed and then said absolutely nothing after.

“Hello?” he said nervously.

“Oh my _god,_ it’s my voice!”

Kageyama stiffened; quite ironically, the person on the other line had used _his_ voice to say that. He had an excellent guess as to whom he was talking to, but he would ask anyway. If he ended up wrong, this would not only be strange, but also agonizingly humiliating. “Um, who is this?” he spoke carefully into the phone.

“Who are _you?_ That’s my phone you’re holding!”

Okay, he was pretty sure this was Oikawa. He frowned. “Well, that’s _my_ voice.”

“Well, that’s not _my_ fault.”

“It’s not mine either!”

There was a pause. “Okay, I’m confused. Let me just—you’re Tobio-chan, right?”

This was _definitely_ Oikawa. Why he had to call Kageyama by his first name rather than his last like everybody else was a mystery almost as great as why he had woken up in a different house and body. “Yes,” he hissed. “And you’re Oikawa-san?”

“Who else could I be? I’m in your—“ The phone crackled a little, “—body and you’re in mine! What the _fuck._ Where are you right now?”

“I’m—I’m by Kitagawa Daiichi.”

“ _What?”_ There was another strained pause. “I—so am I! Where are you here?”

For Kageyama to have ended up here when he had no idea where he was going was one kind of miracle, but Oikawa ending up here too, even without so much as a clue where Kageyama could be, was on a whole other level. Kageyama examined the high wall separating him and the inside of the campus. “I’m by the back, I think,” he told Oikawa, but the fact that he was talking to Oikawa using Oikawa’s voice was so weird it almost didn’t feel real.

“Okay, stay there. I’ll go to you.”

The sound of dial tone quickly filled his ears and then he was dropping the call and shoving the phone back inside his bag. Left standing alone in nearly-complete silence, Kageyama couldn’t help but fidget, but not from the lack of morning heat. For a while, he’d thought he was going insane but Oikawa himself had confirmed it: they were in each other’s bodies. That meant that he was standing here, breathing hard, using Oikawa’s legs; that Oikawa was walking around the perimeter of their old school using Kageyama’s; and that in a matter of seconds, he would see himself marching down an empty road, most probably wielding his apparently famed angry face, but he wouldn’t feel the pull of it on his muscles—Oikawa would.

This was seriously messed up.

“ _Oh. My. GOD,”_ his voice was saying all of a sudden, using intonations he had never himself applied in his own speech, and Kageyama whirled around in surprise only to find his body, properly dressed (thank god) and staring at him like he was the greatest of atrocities. He might as well have been. His own body scowled at him. “You’re kidding me, right? You’ve got to be kidding me. You left the house looking like _that?_ Have you never heard of a comb? Hair gel? _Decency?”_

Kageyama wanted to be guilty, he really did; Oikawa’s hair had always been a wonder among many and although he was very shocked to find out that its normal state wasn’t its natural state, he could have given more effort to fixing it. But right now, all he could really think of was that he was looking down at his own body—looking _down—_ and that Oikawa really was much taller than he was. He swallowed pathetically, unable to make words.

Oikawa—could he really call the person in front of him Oikawa?—looked like he wanted to strangle him. “I swear to god,” he mumbled, stepping towards Kageyama without a hint of hesitation and digging around in his bag (Oikawa’s bag, really, slung on his shoulder which currently was in Kageyama’s control; boy, this was going to be tough), triumphantly pulling out a comb the minute he found it. He let out a gruff sigh, stared at the mess that was currently his head's hair, and began performing damage control.

Kageyama couldn’t remember the last time he’d had his hair combed, and to have it _styled_ was an entirely different story. He felt himself reflexively shrinking the more the weight of his own body’s hands bore down on his current head. “Um, Oikawa-san,” he started, “aren’t there more important things to be talking about?”

“I think it’s clear that we’ve switched bodies at this point, Tobio-chan. Otherwise, _this—“_ He gestured to the hair before him “—wouldn’t have happened.” And the combing resumed.

Trying not to sigh too heavily, Kageyama continued to awkwardly stand in front of Oikawa’s critical stare until the latter stepped away, scrutinizing his handiwork, expression not at all satisfied with the outcome. He groaned. “Good enough, I guess. Even I can get bad hair days sometimes,” he muttered, preparing to store the comb inside of his bag, but then he cringed and handed it to Kageyama instead. “Keep it with you. Try not to look like a disaster while you’re in _my_ body.”

The tone of his sentences projected through Kageyama’s voice had to be the most annoying thing Kageyama had ever heard, and so he scowled right back. “Well, _that’ll_ be hard.”

Oikawa sent him a warning glare. “ _Moving on,_ ” he said harshly, and Kageyama had to restrain the strong urge to add, _finally._ Who knew that the sass came with the body? “What the hell happened? Why—I mean, how is this even possible? _How_ are we in each other’s bodies right now?”

“Like I know,” Kageyama muttered, but in Oikawa’s voice, his usually bitter-sounding dialogue sounded more like it was coming from an irrationally impatient child. He cringed, ran a hand across his face, thoroughly ignoring Oikawa’s deep frowning at him. “Maybe—maybe our souls switched places in our sleep? Like what happens in movies?”

“Well, we’re not in a _movie,_ Tobio.” He didn’t think he’d ever heard his own voice say his first name so many times. “This is real life. Why would our souls even think to go anywhere other than where they already are? And what gives them the right and ability to leave in the first place?”

“I don’t know anything about souls! Any better ideas, then?”

Left with no other wisecracks, Oikawa fell silent, crossing his arms and heaving an evidently pained sigh. White puffs of air materialized before him. “No. It’s probably safe to say that’s exactly what happened, though I really don’t get how.” His distressed stare was directed at Kageyama now. “More importantly: how are we going to fix it? We can’t stay like this all day.”

No, they definitely couldn’t, but the situation was crazy and Kageyama never really considered himself very bright (with matters outside volleyball, anyway) so he only really had one idea—and even then, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to suggest it, wasn’t sure how well his partner in misfortune would receive it. “Maybe they need a physical push?” he said, referring to their apparently travel-capable souls, deciding to try anyway. “Maybe something we did yesterday kind of…um, jostled them out of place, so we should try…jostling them back in?”

Like he’d expected, it wasn’t received well. “But I didn’t even see you yesterday, much less do anything that might _jostle_ _my soul out of place_ and end up moving it inside your body _._ ”

“I’m still waiting for better ideas, Oikawa-san.”

‘Oikawa-san’ let out a brief and impatient growl that made Kageyama sound something like a rabid dog, and Kageyama inside his body was making a mental note never to growl at anything or anyone, no matter how atrocious, ever again. “Fine,” Oikawa said through gritted teeth. “You wanna try, like—“ He pursed his lips, probably struggling to come up with a ‘physical push’ that would make sense without being completely humiliating. “Hell, I don’t know—running at each other and then—? Maybe if we collide, we can—?”

He paused and massaged Kageyama’s body’s temples. “This is awful,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Kageyama said, “but I get what you’re saying.” As Oikawa looked up at him ( _up at him;_ was his body really that much shorter?) he frowned before shrugging light-heartedly. “You want to try it?”

The answer was definitely no, but obviously, at this point, no idea could be considered too crazy. “Better than doing nothing,” Oikawa said, shaking his head at what had apparently become of his life, and then he was backpedalling and pointing an instructing finger at Kageyama. “Stay there. Tell me when I’m far enough.”

Kageyama had no idea what ‘far enough’ truly was, but he supposed ten feet wasn’t bad. “That’s fine,” he called out when his own body was approximately that distance away, cringing when he realized he’d yelled when they were in the general vicinity of a school—their old school, in fact—and feeling grateful that they hadn’t chosen to do this by the main gate. There had to be a bunch of middle schoolers entering the premises now and Kageyama was absolutely sure he didn’t want to see them, nor did he want anyone to see what was about to happen.

Even as they stood, feet away from each other, each wearing their own version of an intense yet nervous glare, it was still incredibly difficult to believe that they were about to run at each other and deliberately clash in the hope of forcing their souls back into their proper places. Kageyama thought back on Oikawa’s criteria as the latter told him to run at his go signal and began to count, seriously considering the practicality of this idea.

Did it make sense? Maybe. Half a check.

“GO!” Oikawa yelled, the deep thrum that was Kageyama’s voice ripping through the air almost as loudly as when he was standing on the court, and the pair of them broke into a run with picture perfect timing.

Was it completely humiliating? Absolutely. Second criteria failed.

Kageyama couldn’t help the pained scream that left his throat the moment he felt the entirety of his current body crashing against his actual one, the shorter body’s forehead knocking painfully against the bridge of the taller body’s nose and every other bone successfully meeting the most agonizing match possible, and he was jostled all right—so jostled, in fact, that he couldn’t even think to stop his body crumpling to the snowy ground, adding even more pain and a biting cold to the already-vast fray. He kept his eyes squeezed shut even as he groaned and checked for signs of a nosebleed.

A mere foot away now, also lying on the ground, Oikawa sounded just as exasperated and overflowing with regret. “Oh my god,” he moaned, and when Kageyama finally shifted and forced a single eye open to glimpse his condition, he only saw his own body with its hands on his forehead, free of the fringe usually covering it. “That was so dumb, _so dumb._ Why did we do that? I hate my life.”

Letting both his eyes shut again, Kageyama couldn’t agree more. It was early in the morning, he was inside Oikawa’s body, and the bones and skin that came with it were probably furious with him. He wondered if anyone would notice if he just stayed here forever, lying on the ground and getting buried in a sea of white regardless of the foreseeable consequences. He wondered if losing consciousness right here on the sidewalk would allow his soul to realize there was something terribly wrong and prompt it to look for a solution by itself.

But it wouldn’t be that easy. After a distressed yelp, most uncharacteristic in Kageyama’s voice, Oikawa leapt to his feet despite the probable throbbing of his joints, staring intently at the phone now in his hands. “School’s almost starting. Fuck. Fuck me for thinking we could solve this before eight thirty,” he hissed, and then without warning, he was grabbing Kageyama by the wrist and desperately attempting to haul him up. Startled, Kageyama scrambled to get on his feet. “Get _up;_ you’re getting dirty down there and you can’t be late— _where is my neck tie?”_

Surprisingly, miraculously, it was still secure inside Kageyama’s grasp, albeit completely rumpled up and ruined. He held it up triumphantly.

The owner wasn’t impressed. “Why didn’t you wear it?”

“I didn’t know how.”

 _“Oh my god,_ do I have to do everything?” Oikawa demanded, snatching the tie out of Kageyama’s hands in one swift motion, temporarily moving his scarf out of the way, and wrapping it around his neck. Given how tight it was, the gesture was almost indicative of strangling, and Kageyama would have thought he was being murdered right then and there if he didn’t know that Oikawa loved his own body far too much to harm it, even if it wasn’t his soul currently inhabiting it.

Once he finished with the tie, he took a step back and seemed to assess the state of his body’s physical appearance with a disapproving glare. “I might as well have gotten mugged,” he muttered, and then he cocked his head to the side. “Actually, yeah—tell them you got mugged. It’ll excuse all your dirt and your being late _and_ it might even get you some sympathy. God knows you need it.”

Kageyama wasn’t much of a liar and he didn’t know how well everyone would buy it if he told them he’d been mugged on the way to school—but then that thought was breaking off and taking a road that was far more alarming. “Wait,” he said, completely forgetting to fix the state of his scarf, “are you saying that we’re going to have to go to school like this? As each other?”

“What else can we do?” Everything about Kageyama’s body—his expression, his voice, Oikawa’s choice of words—sounded incredibly unhappy. “We can’t miss a day of school and obviously, I can’t enter Seijoh looking like _this._ We have to make this work somehow.”

He had a point, but Kageyama still had several issues about this plan. “Do we—do we tell the others that—“

“No. No, we don’t tell anyone that this is happening,” Oikawa quickly said. “They’re gonna think we’re insane and they’re not even gonna believe us. No. Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna meet up later in the afternoon after school to fix this mess, but in the meantime, we’re gonna have to act like each other as best we can to minimize suspicion and so that we don’t end up ruining each other’s reputations—not that yours needs any more ruining.”

He seemed unaffected by Kageyama’s scathing glare, but he did stare at it for longer than necessary. “Okay, first of all, don’t make that face. Don’t ever make it. You look constipated and my face can never be caught _dead_ looking constipated.”

“Well, you talk too much,” Kageyama spat back, and it was Oikawa’s turn to glare. “And you don’t look constipated but you look like some kind of…high and mighty _king_ when you’re angry.”

“Isn’t that just perfect, then?”

“Shut up,” Kageyama snapped. “Act like me _properly_ or your ‘reputation’ will be ruined before lunch even starts.”

They were both in incredible positions, Kageyama realized when Oikawa pursed his lips and took in a sharp breath through his nose. Under normal circumstances, no threat Kageyama could ever spit out would have any effect on his ever-confident, ever-arrogant upperclassman—but this circumstance was entirely different. They weren’t just in control of each other’s bodies; they were in control of each other’s _lives._ Anything they did right or wrong would have an unimaginable effect on their futures—both near and far—and anything done wrong would probably cost both of them years and years of hard work.

The thought of Oikawa ruining anything in his life as it was sent chills running through Kageyama’s spine. Oikawa probably felt the exact same thing.

His sigh was heavy and tinged with acceptance. “Fine,” he said, crossing his arms defiantly despite this. “Give me tips. How do I be Kageyama Tobio for a day?”

Hopefully it really would just be for a day; Kageyama racked his brain for patterns in his behaviour during regular occasions. “Um, well, you have to remember to be respectful to the all the third years and second years. That’s Shimizu-san, Sawamura-san, Sugawara-san, Azumane-san, Kinoshita-san, Narita-san, and Ennoshita-san. Oh—Nishinoya-san and Tanaka-san too, but you’d probably be better off ignoring them because they tend to say dumb things all the time. The same goes for Tsukishima. Don’t let him get the last word when he tries to rile you up. Be nice to Yamaguchi and Yachi-san, I guess. _Oh.”_

Kageyama felt something inside him snap and he was leaning excitedly towards Oikawa, who recoiled slightly in surprise. “Make sure Hinata isn’t mediocre. If you see him doing something wrong, you have to tell him about it so that he improves, _but don’t let him get better than you._ If you meet him on the way to anywhere, be prepared to run because you’re going to end up racing and we have a tally of how many wins and losses we have and I don’t want him getting too much of a lead. Right now we’re at 41-42, in favour of Hinata. Oh, and drink at least a carton of milk during lunch. The machine’s outside near the gyms.”

The look on Oikawa’s (actually Kageyama’s) face was incredulous as it was incredibly confuddled, and Kageyama could only hang onto the sliver of hope that he would at least get the bits about his interactions with Hinata right. Those were extremely important and getting them wrong would change their entire dynamic drastically, would probably wound Kageyama’s pride and prospects just as much.

“41-42?” Oikawa said, expression still bewildered. He made a face at Kageyama. “You two have raced _83_ times in these past few months? And you took note of all of that?”

“No, I think we only started counting after April.”

“ _What,”_ Oikawa said, and it didn’t sound like a question so Kageyama didn’t bother responding. Oikawa shook his head. “Whatever. Those are your teammates. What about the people in class and stuff?”

“Don’t mind them. I don’t really talk to them anyway.”

There was a brief pause. “Your ability to not care,” said Oikawa, face now looking exasperated and also done with life; it suited Kageyama’s features, “is amazing, Tobio-chan. Anything else?”

It was Kageyama’s turn to pause. “No, not really.”

“Okay, then listen carefully, because I’m only going to say all of this once and trust me, there’s a lot to take note of because I actually _interact_ with people who aren’t my teammates.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up. Now, I don’t expect you to know everything anyone talks to you about, but at least try and relate. If you can’t, involve other people in the conversation and let it kick off from there. _Take notes_ in class, that’s really important. Right now, I’m trying to keep my notes as clean and orderly as possible so that it’ll be easier to study, so don’t ruin it. Write as neatly and completely as possible. Listen to the lectures too. Also when the third period teacher asks for the homework, it’s inside the clear file in your bag, first pouch. It’s the only paper in there so you won’t get confused. Oh, and my notes have labels, so don’t just go writing wherever you damn well please.”

Kageyama felt as though he was sitting in Math class instead of standing in front of his own body on the streets.

“When lunch comes—ah, don’t do anything. Today’s Tuesday, so it’s Iwa-chan’s turn to go to my classroom. Be friendly to anyone who sits by you, don’t let them steal your food. You _do_ have food, right?”

Memories of him rushing out of the house without so much as eating breakfast came rushing back into Kageyama’s mind, and he stared blankly in response to Oikawa’s questioning stare. The latter rolled his eyes.

“Oh my god,” he muttered again, accompanying the sentiment with a sigh. “Fine. Just wait for Iwa-chan and then tell him you need to go to the cafeteria to get yourself milk bread. My wallet is in the bag, in one of the secret pockets. Don’t buy anything else. Don’t you _dare_ get any milk.” Kageyama frowned. “It’s bland as hell; why do you even like it so much? Don’t answer that. Oh! If you meet any girls along the way, just be as friendly as possible. If they want you to try their homemade lunch or sweets or whatever else, just take a sample and don’t act too interested in any one girl if you don’t wanna get in trouble. Make them all feel appreciated, but not _too_ appreciated, do you get it? That applies during lunch and after school.”

“What?” This time, it was Kageyama who was incredulous. “Girls give you free food at lunch and after school? And I’m supposed to make them feel appreciated without seeming interested? How the hell do I do that?”

“You just—“ Oikawa stopped midway through what was possibly an entire explanation of what not to do around adoring fans, leaving his mouth hanging open for a while, until he was burying Kageyama’s body’s face in his hands. “This isn’t gonna work. This is _not_ going to _work_. Do you even—“ He abruptly focused his eyes on his own body’s face, still deeply frowning. “Do you even know how to smile without looking like a serial murderer?”

If Kageyama hadn’t taken offense to anything Oikawa had said before, he certainly did now. He wasn’t very good at smiling but to say he looked like a serial murderer when he was genuinely trying to look like a normal happy person wasn’t a very nice thing to do. Then again, when had Oikawa ever been known for being a nice person? Resigning himself to Oikawa’s terrible personality, he tried out a smile—and felt his eyebrows furrowing for no good reason, felt the awkward stretch of it on his cheeks, felt a deep shame the moment Oikawa grimaced at him.

“What is _that?”_ he asked, and Kageyama quickly wiped the _that_ in question off his face, equally unable to acknowledge that it was a smile but also unable to keep from being upset. “When you’re smiling, you actually have to look _happy,_ you know. And try and make it look a little more natural, like this.”

And then Oikawa in Kageyama’s body was smiling—a smile so effortless and seemingly genuinely filled with joy. The curl of his mouth was small but radiated mirth and was incontestably natural, along with the squint in his eyes that made them look almost closed.

Kageyama felt like he’d just been stabbed.

“NO,” he nearly yelled, wanting to reach for his own face in the hope of burying it underground where no one else could see it. “No—don’t do that with other people around. Don’t do it ever again; it’s _disgusting.”_

“It looks better than _your_ sorry excuse for a smile!” Oikawa snapped, and then he was huffing and crossing his arms. “Okay, you know what? No smiling for the both of us. You’re going to tell them you got mugged and that you’re out of it and are in no mood to smile. Or better yet, just tell Iwa-chan and he’ll take care of the rest. Tell him it was highly-traumatic and that they took your—um. Okay, no, they didn’t get to take anything because a policeman came and they ran before they could. But they had a knife and you’re very upset. Got it?”

Oh, he got it, but whether he had it in him to tell everyone the fake story well enough for them to actually believe it was another matter altogether, something Kageyama decided he no longer wanted Oikawa to be concerned about. So he nodded. “Where are we going to meet after school?”

“Here. I don’t want your body seen anywhere near Seijoh or mine near Karasuno. And let’s meet here at this very spot so we don’t have to worry about any middle schoolers recognizing us. We were both pretty famous during our time.”

The last was with implication but Kageyama kept from balling his hand into a fist, refrained from expressing any sort of displeasure whatsoever because no way was he going to give Oikawa the satisfaction of knowing he was still upset about his days in junior high. “Okay,” he simply said, after a single, steady breath. “Don’t screw anything up.”

“You probably need to hear that more than I do,” Oikawa replied before turning away, and as he watched his body move farther and farther away in a brisk walk, Kageyama knew he was absolutely right.

 

* * *

 

He knew Oikawa was right, but entering the Seijoh premises with absolutely no knowledge about where anything was or where he was supposed to go was a pretty excellent additional reminder. He’d only ever been to the school once and that was just to locate the easily-spottable gymnasiums, not to enter any one building and scour every floor to discover in which room his presence was being expected. He hadn’t even known which class Oikawa was in, and when he remembered this little fact, he’d panicked at the school gates, sent a hurried text to what he hoped was the correct number:

> **Me [8:25 AM]**    
>  Oikawa-san, what class are you in??

and took deep breaths as he waited for a response. Thankfully, he still memorized his own number and it hadn't taken long at all.

> **Unknown [8:26 AM]**  
>  class 6. you?
> 
> **Me [8:26 AM]**  
>  Class 3 

It had been his first time texting Oikawa in any sort of context, but at the moment, that wasn’t important. Knowing that Oikawa was in Class 6 was in no way similar to knowing where Class 6 even was and knowing how to get there. He’d spent a good five more minutes skulking around in the shadows until a familiar face—one of Seijoh’s team’s third years, the middle blocker—was jogging through the school gates and heading towards one of the buildings where, presumably, the rest of the third years stayed, and his homeroom teacher had been less than happy with him for showing up two minutes late.

The few hours he’d spent sitting in class before lunch came around were the most nerve-wracking few hours of his life. He knew it was going to be difficult taking notes that would live up to Oikawa’s recently-established standards, but it only dawned on him then, as he was bombarded by terms and concepts he didn’t understand and probably never would, that Oikawa was two years ahead of him in age and knowledge and therefore, all the things he would be writing about would be completely alien to him. He’d taken one look at Oikawa’s notebook, hesitated, and then pulled out an empty sheet of paper where he decided to copy everything the teacher wrote on the board without consideration for the cleanliness or the context with which the facts came.

And he didn’t think he’d ever prayed harder than he did earlier when the second period teacher had started calling for volunteers to solve problems on the board.

When the bell for lunch finally sounded, he let out an exhale so enormous he may as well have been holding his breath the entire morning and allowed his head to drop on the table. The day was almost half over, he told himself, but even if he had intended it to be comforting he wasn’t so sure it was working. He’d lucked out with the first few classes but who could say that every class that would follow would run as smoothly? Who could say that _lunch_ would be as peaceful as classes would be? Certainly there would be many waiting to hold conversation with him, and those girls holding homemade lunches were probably on the prowl right about now, if Kageyama’s knowledge on the general female high school population was anything close to credible.

It would be easier to just stay in the classroom and deal with whatever came his way in there, probably; the outside world was a jungle, filled with creatures from all walks of life who would stare at him, judge him, or worse—want to talk to him, and he was certain that no amount of advice from the owner of the body he was in would prepare him for so many spontaneous interactions with people who spoke to him, thinking he was someone else. However one significant, inescapable problem remained, and it was tugging at his innards.

He hadn’t skipped breakfast since the second grade. He was _starving._

Still curled up by his desk, Kageyama clutched at his stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time it had felt this empty and he craved food _so much_ it was honestly a major feat that Oikawa’s body wasn’t making any unpleasant, embarrassing groaning noises in protest. He wondered how long the feat would hold true, and whether Oikawa’s initial reaction to the story of how the entire class heard his stomach growl would be horror or rage.

“Oikawa?”

Instinctively, Kageyama’s head shot up (though whether it was because he recognized that he was currently Oikawa or because hearing the name triggered a natural, knee-jerk reaction remained to be seen) and immediately locked eyes with Iwaizumi Hajime, curiously looking down at him while clutching at a bag that probably held lunch he’d packed from home. A few seconds ago the thought of lunch would have sent him in hysterics, but now all he could do was stare wide-eyed at his other junior high upperclassman, one who’d been almost as cool as Oikawa and yet far nicer.

“Iwaiz—“ Kageyama started as he sat upright, but then Oikawa’s repetitive cries of _Iwa-chan_ were ringing in his head and he suddenly wanted to sink into the floor. _Damn Oikawa and his penchant for cutesy nicknames._ There was absolutely no way Kageyama could call someone so esteemed by a nickname he probably didn’t even want, but he wasn’t Kageyama right now; he was Oikawa, and ‘Iwa-chan’ was just something that came along with that. “Iwa—“

His entire form shook slightly. He couldn’t do it. “Hello,” he said, feebly, instead.

Iwaizumi looked partially concerned, partially weirded out. Kageyama didn’t blame him. “Hey?” he replied, setting his lunch down on the table. “Why were you lying on the table?”

Just as he was pulling a chair over to Oikawa’s desk, Kageyama abruptly stood up, the scratching of his own chair’s legs against the floor echoing throughout the room, which had earlier only been filled with the relatively quiet murmuring of his classmates. Iwaizumi and everyone else seemed to jump, all looking at Kageyama (and thinking that they were looking at Oikawa) with wide eyes. “Um, sorry,” Kageyama mumbled. “I, uh—I need to go the cafeteria.”

“What, no food? Did you forget to ask for some in your rush this morning?”

“Yes—wait, you know about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I stop by your house every morning,” said Iwaizumi, and Kageyama wanted to cringe at his own incompetency. These two had been friends for years now; of course they would do things like that. Thankfully, Iwaizumi wasn’t calling him an idiot just yet. “What was with that, by the way? Your mom said you were screaming right after you woke up and then you just ran out of the house without even eating.”

It was early in December (and therefore, not hot at all) but Kageyama could feel a sweat breaking out at his temples and the back of his neck. His behaviour this morning at the Oikawa house had been inexcusable, no doubt, and he had no idea how he was going to explain it, how Oikawa would want him to explain it. He nervously fiddled with the hem of his blazer. “I just—“ he started, hoping he didn’t look too nervous, knowing that his hopes were in vain. “I wanted some exercise.”

If Iwaizumi wasn’t confused seconds ago, he was now. “So you skipped breakfast?”

“Um, yes—yeah,” Kageyama quickly corrected, having realized that this was Oikawa’s best friend he (who was currently Oikawa, _so act like Oikawa, god damn it)_ was talking to and therefore didn’t need to hear him use such formal speech. “That’s why…I’m really hungry now, so I, um—“ Oikawa probably never stuttered this much “—really want some milk bread.”

He wondered if Oikawa also sweated while Iwaizumi stared him down, like Kageyama was right now. “Don’t you think you should eat a little more than just milk bread since you skipped breakfast?”

Of course he knew that, but Oikawa hadn’t instructed him to get anything else for lunch and Kageyama wasn’t sure whether the food he would pick out would be suitable to Oikawa’s character and practices. A tiny voice in his mind, one that sounded like Oikawa’s and was therefore _really annoying_ , was telling him to just bear the hunger and wait until he was out of Seijoh to regain whatever nutrients he was lacking, but his stomach was crying out to him at the same time, begging to be fed, begging to be given something more satisfying than just sweet bread.

Somehow the cries that didn’t sound like Oikawa’s were a lot more persuasive. “Um, what else do they have in the cafeteria?” Kageyama asked nervously.

“Lots of things. What do you want?”

Oikawa was going to hate him for this. “Is there curry?”

Iwaizumi paused. “I guess? Curry’s pretty standard. Let’s go?”

“Yes—yeah.”

He’d walked alongside Iwaizumi in junior high once, when the two of them had been assigned to push the ball cart back into its proper place. He remembered being completely calm, offering honest answers to his friendly senior’s equally friendly questions, and he took pride in the fact that Iwaizumi had told him he’d done good work before patting him firmly on the shoulder. Iwaizumi was easy like that; all Kageyama had to do was be himself and Iwaizumi’s accommodating and patient nature would take care of the rest.

Today’s walk was different from that. Today, Kageyama wasn’t allowed to be himself. He was supposed to be Oikawa—someone whose personality was leagues away from his—and Iwaizumi was supposed to be his best friend: someone he probably ranted to, someone he messed around with. And Kageyama didn’t know how to _do_ any of that. Not with Iwaizumi. Barely even with anyone else.

The silence that hung between them as they crossed the crowded hallway was more awkward than anything Kageyama had ever experienced before, and it didn’t help that he could see Iwaizumi staring at him from the corner of his eye. He took a soft, shaky breath, praying to the high heavens that whatever Iwaizumi was thinking, he would just keep it to himself.

“Are you okay?” came Iwaizumi’s voice not a second after Kageyama’s prayer, and wow, he had never felt more betrayed. Iwaizumi, meanwhile, looked genuinely disconcerted now. “Did something happen? Usually by this time you’ve got so many stories to tell, I’m the one who has to tell you to pick the most important ones.”

That didn’t come as a surprise, but Kageyama didn’t know what excuse to give—what excuses would placate Iwaizumi’s inevitable concern and send him the signal to just leave Oikawa alone in his thoughts for today. He tried to shrug as casually as possible, but as he did, he wondered how it would sound if he told Iwaizumi about the real situation. “No, nothing happened.” _Something crazy happened, Iwaizumi-san._ “Nothing interesting to talk about.” _Oikawa-san and I woke up in each other’s bodies and he wants me to tell you he got mugged._

Telling him about it would probably take an entire lunch period and more, however, and Kageyama’s appetite could no longer afford that. His gaze couldn’t afford to direct itself at Iwaizumi either, and so he had no idea what face his ‘friend’ was making as he quietly huffed. “This is weird,” he said, “but I could get used to it. You talk too much.”

He’d told Oikawa the same thing earlier; Kageyama was nearly brought to smile but he caught himself, thankfully, and realized that this was probably something Oikawa would object to. He struggled to visualize Oikawa’s pouting face and struggled even harder to replicate it. “I don’t,” he mumbled.

Iwaizumi laughed, and the weight of the world seemed to lift itself ever so slightly off of Kageyama’s metaphorical shoulders. He discreetly pumped a victorious fist. “Glad to see you’re still the master of denial.”

The master of denial. The phrase clicked in Kageyama’s head and, high on the fact that he’d managed to interact semi-normally, he allowed himself to wonder how long Iwaizumi had been associating it with Oikawa. It wasn’t something he heard back in junior high—usually he heard things like ‘crappy guy’ and ‘dumbass’ and even ‘bully’, at one point in time. Dumbass, he was particularly fond of. It suited Oikawa, even back then, and both he and Hinata deserved it very much now.

But before he could even begin to wonder what ‘the master of denial’ possibly meant, a bunch of high-pitched voices were squealing out, “Oikawa-san!” and he was stopping in his tracks, every hair on Oikawa’s body standing on end.

“Oh, boy,” Iwaizumi groaned, stopping along with him. “Looks like today’s one of _those days._ I guess you don’t need to buy your own lunch after all, Oikawa.”

Kageyama would much rather buy his own lunch, and Iwaizumi’s too, if it meant he didn’t have to stand in the centre of a circle of girls and pretend to be impressed by their cooking. Unsure what to do, Kageyama found himself clutching desperately at Iwaizumi’s sleeve, earning him a bewildered stare. “Can we still go the cafeteria?” he asked hurriedly.

“What? Why?”

“I—I still want milk bread.”

Iwaizumi made a face. “You’re probably going to get a full-course meal and a whole bunch of cookies to try and you still want to get milk bread?”

“It’s…my favourite food?” According to Volleyball Monthly, anyway.

“Yeah, I know _that_ , but…” Iwaizumi’s flow of thought seemed to trail off as the sound of excitedly chattering girls became closer and closer, and both he and Kageyama impulsively turned to see a group of no less than eight girls crowding around, pushing one another in an effort to get closer to where Kageyama ( _Oikawa-san~)_ stood, but not close enough to end up accidentally brushing against him, it looked like. Man, girls were meticulous.

“Oikawa-san, hello!”

“Oikawa-san, I had some spare time to cook last night so I thought I’d make you this—“

“Oikawa-san, I made you some more of those biscuits you liked—“

“Oikawa-san—“

_“Oikawa-san—“_

Kageyama was going to be sick.

It didn’t help that Iwaizumi thought it was the right time to hit him in the arm; he let out a yelp that could have invalidated the distinction between him and the girls crowding around him. “Go on, talk to them,” he said, and Kageyama was perplexed to see him taking one step at a time away from their little harem. “I’ll go swing by the cafeteria and get you your bread.”

_Oh SHIT._

“Don’t leave me!” Kageyama cried, grasping at Iwaizumi’s arm once again, and he must have looked terrified because the face Iwaizumi was making practically screamed ‘ _what the fuck’_ in not so subtle ways. He cleared his throat and loosened the hold, but still kept it there. “Um. I mean—“ He knew what he meant but what he meant and what he could _say_ were two totally different things. “Can’t—can’t I just get my own bread while you talk to them?”

The _what the fuck_ on his friend’s face was now in uppercase. “Trashykawa, they’re here for you, not me,” he said firmly. “Who do you think I am, your personal bodyguard or something?”

“No, but—“ That story about getting mugged was getting more and more attractive with every passing second, but at this point, it would be a miracle if Iwaizumi believed it, let alone expressed sympathy. “I can’t talk to them, I’m not—this morning, I—“

“Just handle it like you always do,” Iwaizumi cut in, voice still firm but now evidently trying to comfort him. It didn’t work, and Kageyama was so rattled he couldn’t even be bothered to appreciate the thought. “I’ll be back before you finish sampling biscuits. Just one bread, right?”

Kageyama felt like his life was flashing before his eyes and his one remedy—his saviour—was turning his back on him, promising to come back with help, only to never return. He swallowed, deciding to give the high heavens another chance to prove how much it cared about his well-being. “Yes. I mean—yeah,” he stammered, slowly allowing his fingers to slip away from Iwaizumi’s limb. He took another breath. “Thank you, Iwaizu—“ Nope. “Iwa-ch—“ _Absolutely not._ “Thanks.” _You’re pathetic._

Iwaizumi threw him one last uneasy glance before turning away and heading for the cafeteria.

It was obvious this morning, but the truth of Oikawa’s words was finally sinking into Kageyama’s system and lodging there like a piece of meat clogged in his throat: _this isn’t going to work._ He had this entire lunch break and then the rest of Oikawa’s difficult third year classes to go through before they could even begin to think of how to solve their little problem, and success wasn’t even guaranteed. They had no idea what caused this, no idea how to undo it, and no idea how Kageyama was going to make it out of Aoba Johsai alive today alone. He couldn’t begin to imagine what a few more days would be like in Oikawa’s body, and definitely not a week. Or a few weeks. Or a _month—_

Yeah, he was going to be sick.

If this was divine intervention to punish him for everything he’d done, everyone he’d called a moron, inferior, and not worth his time—he solemnly swore he would make a list, check it twice, and buy every single one of those people a snack of their choice even if it left him starving on the streets; _please just get me back inside my own body._

But that was a problem for later. Right now, he had to put on the best smile his untrained facial muscles could muster and mentally prepare himself to be spoon-fed lunch.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made [art](http://nishi-key.tumblr.com/post/155332692218/so-i-updated-my-fic-doodled-some-stuff-for-it) for my own fic lol ( _someone_ has to). some sort of visual guide, perhaps. i don't know if it'll be a regular thing but it could be fun.


	3. our differences resemble one another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oikawa has it relatively easy until he remembers that Kageyama has everything he wants but can never have and some other things no one could ever want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [PLEASE READ!]
> 
> hey so chapters 1 and 2 were edited minimally to reflect the timeline in which this story is taking place—which i realized too late orz. the changes aren’t much; just the fact that it’s around december 10th, so it’s snowing. i was initially changing the fact that chapter 2 took place on a tuesday and making it wednesday but the manga says that they reunited after training camp on a monday so i guess this is fine. yes i am seriously integrating with canon as best i can, thus the canon era tag.
> 
> oh and btw! a new tag has been introduced. it’s called: _light angst_.

While Kageyama struggled not to tarnish his current body’s reputation of being good with people of all sexes, Oikawa all the way in Karasuno found that he, for once, had a lot of opportunity to think. Kageyama hadn’t been joking; he’d strayed away from any sort of interaction with his classmates for half of the day and none of them found it odd, none of them bothered to change it. Asocial was one of the last things Oikawa could call himself but he actually appreciated the silence; if Kageyama had been anything like him from the get go, he would have had to deal with people crowding around him, calling him the genius setter and that was—no. Fuck that.

Instead, he spent the majority of his time sitting to himself, thinking, completely devoid of distractions. Yes, he was sitting in class and custom dictated that he was there to listen and learn, but the subject matter was second nature and Kageyama himself probably didn’t care about it half the time anyway. He’d been called on to solve a Math problem on the board during fourth period but the only reason he’d stood in front for as long as he did was because he hadn’t listened to the instructions. And when he returned to his seat, the problem very thoroughly owned, the teacher had been visibly impressed, going as far as to say, “Good work, Kageyama. Your performance is better today.”

Struggling not to smile had been harder than the math.

When he wasn’t off doing a better job than Kageyama he was deep in his own thoughts, trying his best to analyse what the hell had happened to them, what otherworldly phenomenon had occurred and caused their little switch. This, he thought, was way more important than whatever classes Kageyama had for the day. Figuring out the root of the problem, understanding its nature, was always helpful when coming up with the solution—and _boy,_ did they need a solution as soon as possible. He was doing an excellent job being Kageyama Tobio for a day so far, but obviously, it was he who’d gotten the worse end of the deal because there was no way Kageyama was handling things this smoothly all the way in Seijoh.

The thought of Kageyama making a fool out of him, ruining the expectations and image that he’d built for himself the past three years, had him more anxious than he’d ever been in a long time. He could only hope that luck would be on the genius’ side for however long this predicament lasted, and he promised that he would do his part to make sure it didn’t last for longer than need be.

By the time lunch came around, Oikawa was still in a deep state of brooding, face severe and attention directed out the window at nothing in particular—which, to his classmates, was completely normal apparently. And that was fine, because by the time lunch came around, the question ringing in his head was entirely different from the one in class; a little less important, but a whole lot more intriguing: _why_ did this happen? Whatever the root cause of the problem was, why did it _have_ to happen? And why did it have to happen to two of them, in particular?

If it had been anyone else he’d done the switch with—a friend, maybe Iwaizumi—it could have gone a whole lot easier. Sure, Iwaizumi’s personality was almost as far from Oikawa’s as Kageyama’s was but at least they had class close to each other, even lived close to each other, knew each other like the backs of their hands, and actually _cared_ for each other. Iwaizumi was gruff and violent but Oikawa knew from the bottom of his heart that Iwaizumi would never wish bad things upon him, would never let anything ruin all his years of hard work.

Kageyama was another story—one that made Oikawa take deep breaths and run his hands through Kageyama’s head’s hair. Surprisingly, it was soft. Pleasantly so, despite the fact that Kageyama probably only combed it once a week.

“Kageyama!”

This wasn’t the time to wish for a different circumstance, however. If any wishes were to be made, it was supposed to be the undoing of the predicament altogether, and once again, Oikawa sat up straight in his chair, turned his grumpy-looking face away from prying eyes, and lost himself in thought.

“Hey! Kageyama!”

They’d already tried giving it a ‘physical push’, as Kageyama called it, and _that_ had worked incredibly well, as illustrated by the fact that Oikawa was still in this body, probably sporting a bruise on his forehead fortunately covered by the annoying fringe. Oikawa still couldn’t believe he’d actually participated in that; he didn’t believe it was a physical matter in the first place. He supposed it was the desperation taking its toll, but from here on out, he was going back to carefully thinking things—

“Kageyama!” a familiar voice yelled far too close to his ear, and then somebody was harshly slapping his desk. Oikawa in Kageyama’s body jumped, startled, and blinked up only to see Karasuno’s Number 10, glaring down at him with an irate frown on his face. Behind him stood their cute, smaller manager. “What the hell? Are you deaf?”

It was odd, seeing him up close and not in the context of volleyball, and Oikawa found he was mildly disoriented. That was probably okay, though. It wasn’t like Kageyama was good at communicating anyway, even with people he already did see on a regular basis. “No,” he said simply, glaring back, and even he could tell how believable and like Kageyama the response was. “What are you doing here?”

Shrimpy was not impressed. “You’re so rude. I don’t even know why I bother including you in anything.”

“It’s fine. We don’t usually go to his classroom anyway,” the new manager said, voice soft and thin. She looked and sounded timid and sensible, placing a restraining yet gentle hand on Shrimpy’s shoulder, and Oikawa figured that if she was going to get along with these freaky first years without dying, there was nothing else she could have been.

“Yeah, but—“ Shrimpy sighed. “Oh, whatever. Your bad personality aside, Yachi-san said she ended up making too much lunch this morning and wants to share with us. You coming?”

Oh, right, it was lunch and he was supposed to eat. Oikawa himself hadn’t brought any food from home because he’d gone down the stairs and found the kitchen completely empty and anyway, he was in too much of a rush to reunite with his body than to think about where Kageyama’s parents could have been. Food sounded pretty good right now but he blinked up at the two incredibly tiny first years before him, unsure if he wanted to spend an entire lunch break with them. “Uh,” he said.

“Wow, Kageyama-kun,” Shrimpy deadpanned, “you have such a way with words.” And suddenly, like he hadn’t just been giving Oikawa a dull, exasperated stare he was grabbing onto Kageyama’s body’s wrists and hauling him out of his chair. Oikawa, taken by surprise, could do nothing but follow. “It’s free food and you’re still being a loner! Come on!”

“Be careful!” the manager—Yachi, was it?—called as Shrimpy dragged him out of his classroom with little to no regard for the other people in the room, staring at them.

In the end, they settled for a spot underneath a tree, close to Kageyama’s most acclaimed vending machine, something Shrimpy seemed to have done deliberately. He sat himself down on a bench nearby with a satisfied sigh, now grinning jovially once again despite having been glaring non-stop just minutes ago. _Annoying._ “There. You were going to get yourself milk in the first place, right?” he said.

 _Oh._ Oikawa, thoughts still half-centred on the whole soul-swapping ordeal, turned his attention to the machine, unable to help his grimace. He’d enjoyed milk as a kid, knew that he needed it to get strong bones and a fair height for volleyball, but at least the baby formulas had a little bit of sweetness to them. The fresh ones drank straight from carton tasted too strong, too cold without any sort of flavour to them, and needless to say, milk from the vending machine wasn’t something he spent his money on.

But now he was going to have to. And if he didn’t do something about his little problem by this afternoon, he was going to have to do it every day in the hope of not toppling something in the balance of Kageyama’s life.  

They _really_ needed to fix this before the day ended.

Resigning himself to his dairy-related fate, Oikawa allowed his consciousness to drift off to more importance places as his physical self (which wasn’t his _real_ physical self) made its way toward the machine. Where had his flow of thought left off again? Oh, right—this predicament wasn’t a physical matter; right, right. If it were, they’d have needed to see each other, touch maybe, in order for their souls to have been ‘jostled out of place’ or whatever the hell else Kageyama had said earlier. But if it wasn’t physical, what could it have been? Mental? Was it possible that they were just going crazy? Psychological? Had he actually been Kageyama Tobio this whole time and just _thought_ that he was Oikawa Tooru?

Okay, that was ridiculous. He took a seat next to Shrimpy as he absent-mindedly punched a straw through the milk carton, any complaints about the unpleasant taste of the drink settling in the back of his mind, Shrimpy’s loud and obnoxious voice as he exchanged stories with Yachi going in one ear and leaving out the other.

There had to be some lead he could go on, some kind of clue that would give away the answers to his questions. He accepted the onigiri that Yachi had handed to him with a half-hearted and distracted, “Thank you,” and, as he bit into it, tried to look back on his life in the past few days, reviewed the events that led up to this moment in the hope of finding something strange, something extraordinary, something like a sign—a warning before an impending disaster.

And right as he sipped up the last swallows of milk, crushing the carton in his hands, it hit him.

_The earthquake._

It had been strong, no doubt, but when he’d gone outside it was as if it had never happened and his friendly next-door neighbour had given him a concerned look, told him he could have been imagining it and recommending that he ask his parents to check the condition of their home’s structure just to be sure because she definitely hadn’t felt anything. He’d thoroughly ignored it, boiled it down to fatigue and overthinking, and left it at that.

“Kageyama?”

He only half heard the Shrimp’s cries for his attention; Oikawa was in his idea space right now and couldn’t be interrupted. If, by chance, Kageyama had felt that earthquake yesterday too, then maybe they could use that as their lead after all, scrutinize every part of their day before it occurred, cross-examine their itineraries for similarities that might have jumbled up the universe enough for this to happen. It sounded far-fetched, but it was better than the empty sheet of confusion Oikawa had been faced with since this morning. He needed to call Kageyama as soon as possible.

“Kageyama!”

Oikawa was feeling his pockets for the phone. “Not now, Shrimpy.”

_“What?”_

Abruptly, he froze, stomach growing cold from the milk he’d downed faster than ever before and perhaps the feeling of Shrimpy’s (oh god, what was his name again?) extremely wide eyes staring at him like he was an alien currently in possession of Kageyama’s physical being. In a way, he was, and that made the shocked silence almost blood-curdling. Entire body stiff, Oikawa cautiously directed his gaze at his companions, only to find both of them gaping at him—Shrimpy, appalled; the manager, concerned.

“ _What_ did you just call me?” Shrimpy (the name— _what was the name?)_ asked.

Oikawa had always been naturally charismatic and eloquent. No matter the nature of the conversation—whom he was with, how important it was—he always managed to blast through it with a winning grin because that was who he was. Apparently, however, the awkwardness somehow came with the body, because right now he was tongue-tied, staring down at what looked like big-eyed gremlins half his size (not really), unable to say a thing because how the hell was he supposed to save his face when his hands were still itching to find a phone and when he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember Kageyama’s partner-in-crime’s _goddamn name?_

“Uhh,” he said instead, gripping the milk in his hand a little too tightly. And then he was standing up too fast, looking around too nervously, and haphazardly spewing out the words, “I gotta go,” before fleeing the scene like a dog with its tail between its legs.

 

* * *

 

In the end, he never did get to call Kageyama during lunch; he’d been far too restless upon leaving the two first years in the dust and wound up forgetting that he was in a school he wasn’t familiar with, and then getting lost. By the time he’d gotten himself together enough to find his building and discover that his phone was in his bag, the lunch bell was ringing and it was time to sit through three more useless classes.

Hearing the bell ring to signal the end of the day was like getting to lie in bed after about two days of abstaining, and he was in a considerably better mood when he stood in an isolated area, dialling his own number on Kageyama’s phone.

His body picked up after but a single ring. “Hello?”

“Tobio-chan,” he whispered; he was all alone but he couldn’t risk anyone hearing him having a conversation with _himself_ over the phone. “School’s over, right? Listen, I did a lot of thinking all day today and I think I might have a clue as to what’s going on.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We need to meet up at Kitaichi as soon as possible so we can talk about it. If we both head there now—“

“We can’t both head there now!”

It was one thing to be interrupted, but to be interrupted _and_ have his plans opposed was pushing it a little too far. Oikawa frowned. “Why not?” he hissed into the phone.

“I—you—my body has volleyball practice!”

The words hit Oikawa like a dagger to the chest. _Volleyball practice._ It had been a few months since Seijoh’s and Shiratorizawa’s shocking losses to Karasuno, a few months since he last attended a volleyball practice, a few months since he last stood on the court with something to prove—but he and everyone around him, on his team, liked to think they’d gotten over it. Not much had changed, after all; just another year of not going to Tokyo for Nationals, another year of seeing Kageyama Tobio impress everyone, just another year of being the ‘Best Setter’ yet without any achievement other than Runner-Up.

A dagger, definitely. One Oikawa hadn’t quite pulled out just yet, from the looks of it.

He frowned, hoping it would be deep enough for Kageyama to see even through a voice call. “I still have to do that? This is important! Would it be _that bad_ if I just told them I can’t come in today because of an emergency?”

“Yes,” Kageyama snapped through the other line, and now Oikawa knew what his voice sounded like when he was angry. “I’ve never missed practice and I never will. You have to go.”

“Why? It’s not like you still need it,” Oikawa taunted bitterly.

“How can I not need it? We’re going to Nationals in less than a month.”

“Well, it’s not like it’s gonna be _you_ that’s practicing anyway, so it doesn’t matter where _you’re_ going in less than a month.”

“At least they’ll know I’m there and that I’m taking this as seriously as they all are. The team needs you.”

“Oh, so _now_ you care about your team?”

There was a pause. A painfully long, agonizing pause, and Oikawa knew he’d managed to hit Kageyama right where it hurt. It was petty, probably, and though he wasn’t exactly proud, he couldn’t bring himself to feel completely terrible either. It wasn’t like Kageyama hadn’t unconsciously been doing the same thing to him for the last four years anyway. He kept his lips firmly pursed together, trying to ignore how they fidgeted, at a loss at how to position themselves, and waited for a response.

At first, it was only a frustrated sigh. “Please go to practice,” Kageyama then said, voice considerably softer but still grave, and it was almost annoying how polite he still was after having been aggravated. “You can ask to leave early but at least go. I’ll do whatever you want me to do while waiting.”

He should have liked having Kageyama Tobio in his debt, at his mercy, but Oikawa felt nothing but irritated with Kageyama’s phone pressed against his ear. “Fine. Whatever,” he said quickly. “And you can do whatever; just try not to let anyone see you skulking around.”

“Thank you, Oikawa-san.”

“I’ll ask to leave at five.”

“That’s okay. Thanks.”

“Stop saying thanks!” Oikawa yelled, ending the call in one hurried click of the phone. He shoved it back in his bag, frowned up at the rest of the world, and began what would be a gruelling search for the volleyball club’s locker room.

 

* * *

 

Annoying. All of it was so annoying. Having to wander around a completely unfamiliar campus trying to find the gym and a place to change his clothes was annoying. Getting spotted by rowdy would-be-seniors from afar and getting led to the clubroom all the while watching them stupidly grin was annoying. The clubroom itself was annoying. Changing amongst the people who had crushed his dreams months ago was annoying. Karasuno’s uniform was annoying. Their gym was annoying, their antics were annoying, being around them was annoying and Oikawa hated them all.

He hated how happy they were, how back when school first started they were nothing more than a rag-tag group of ordinary high school players with big dreams but not a whole lot of confidence, how all of that changed the moment the body he was inhabiting walked through the gym doors and sent tosses their way. He hated that they could still do this, that even their third years still had the right to go running laps around the gym, driven by purpose, while he and his team had only used the court illegally, one last time, trying to say goodbye and crying their eyes out. He hated that no matter how hard he worked, people like the shrimp always came along to stump them, only armed by a lack of technique and a whole lot of guts.

He hated the shrimp most of all. Hinata was his name, apparently, but Oikawa couldn’t care less.

Oikawa couldn’t care less about practice either. He missed doing drills and stretching and yelling for no reason other than boosting morale but he didn’t want to be with these people, didn’t want to run around with this body about several centimetres shorter. He wanted to be at his own gym, with his own friends, in his own body, winning his own victories.

That was something he could never have now, even if he did manage to turn everything back to the way it was.

The warm-up exercises weren’t that bad, though. Just like the rest of the day, he could use Kageyama’s being innately quiet to his advantage, use it as an excuse not to talk or look at anyone and to have an upset frown pinned to his face, because he didn’t think he was capable of anything else at the moment. Hinata didn’t bother mentioning anything about lunch and the people Kageyama had instructed him to ignore with all his might hadn’t come up to say anything stupid, so it was tolerable. It sucked, but it was tolerable.

Practicing spikes hadn’t exactly been difficult either. He’d never synced with any one of them before but this was what he was good at, anyway. He’d set for the bald spiker, Sawamura’s substitute, and two players he barely saw while Refreshing-kun handled the rest, and though most of them had initially found it difficult to hit what Oikawa had offered them, the second tries were all excellent, to say the least, lightening Oikawa’s mood in the smallest of ways. It was good to know he hadn’t gotten rusty just yet.

When Hinata’s turn came up, Oikawa wasn’t sure what to initially try. He knew that the shrimp was well-versed in hitting Kageyama’s ridiculously fast toss but not much other than that, and yet in the last match he was sure that the middle blocker’s eyes had been open the entirety of the time, had even managed things like regrouping and feinting a spike. What exactly Kageyama had done to match him in order to make this possible was still a great mystery to Oikawa.

Regardless, he sent a normal toss to the jumping shrimp—not too close but not too far from the net, average height (being small did absolutely nothing to deter him, and that was pretty annoying too)—and he’d struggled but he managed to get it over the net and cleanly into the other court.

Before he even landed on his feet, he was sending a confused stare Oikawa’s way. “That wasn’t the special toss, was it?” he said.

This ‘special toss’ was probably second nature to genius setter Kageyama and the tiny spiker he had gotten to appreciate him so much, but Oikawa wasn’t Kageyama and he had absolutely no idea what that could have been, what ‘special’ even meant. “What?” he only said, in the hope that maybe he’d find out.

“You know, the—the toss! The—uh,” Hinata said, and suddenly he was flailing his arms around like a moron, “the one that goes— _whoosh—_ and then— _boop._ ”

Oikawa stared blankly at him, and then glanced at the libero to the side who was nodding in agreement. Was this an actual language that they used to communicate here? Was it a code? Either way, Oikawa was lost. “Yeah,” he said, slowly, “that. Sure. No, it wasn’t. My bad.”

“Okay, let’s try it again.”

 _Can we not,_ Oikawa thought as Hinata took several steps back and reached for a new ball from the cart, but the determined, almost hungry look in his eyes was almost certainly indicative of a ‘no’ to a question Oikawa hadn’t even asked. For the first time during the practice, he could feel nervousness pooling in his stomach, a slight chill settling in his fingertips. There was no way he could get this right without knowing what it even was, and there was no telling how his teammates would react, seeing Kageyama flounder around with a technique he’d probably long since mastered. They’d think he was having an off day.

Only it wouldn’t weigh on Kageyama; it would all be on Oikawa, whose toss wasn’t and would never be good enough to match his.

Hinata was running up once again, faster than Oikawa could think, and his hands reflexively moved to do another regular toss, strikingly similar to the one earlier, and before Hinata could send him another confused, concerned stare, he was already cursing his entire existence.

“That wasn’t it eith—er,” Hinata began to say, lowering his voice the moment he laid his eyes on Oikawa’s face—a face that practically screamed, _I know that better than you, dumbass_ in a way only Kageyama’s facial features could communicate. He cautiously approached. “Hey, Kageyama, are you feeling okay? You’ve been kind of out of it since lunch.”

At this point, Oikawa had nothing good to say, not an eloquent part of him left. “No, not really,” he admitted, and the sound of Kageyama’s voice accompanying his words (defeated, absolutely downcast) was almost surprising. He glanced at Sawamura, who was now approaching with an equally concerned face, along with their coach. “I was actually gonna ask if I could leave a little early today. I’m not—“ He paused “—in condition.”

“Are you sick?” the coach asked.

Given how shitty he felt, he may as well have been. “I think so. Yes.”

“You want someone to take you to the infirmary?”

“I think I’d rather go home; thank you.”

Even the coach seemed concerned now—concerned that their star player wasn’t at the top of his game so close to an important tournament, most likely. “Alright,” he said. “Take care of yourself. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Hopefully not, thought Oikawa, as several of the players sent him off with pats to the back and declarations of, “I hope you get better,” and the likes. If he was going to have to spend another day in Kageyama’s body, trying to be a team with his rivals and getting his actual self’s lack of genius shoved repeatedly in his face until it was enough to bruise, he wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to take it.

He was barely able to hear someone ask, “Do you think something happened at the training camp?” before he was completely out the door and out of earshot.

 

* * *

 

Humiliating. Talking to Oikawa was always humiliating in some way—like even just a few words exchanged between them degraded Kageyama, scared him. Seeing him again at the practice match was intimidating, going against him at the Inter High was absolutely terrifying, to say the least, and even charging into the Spring High just months ago with nothing but revenge and victory in mind, he hadn’t been spared from moments of weakness, moments where he thought he would never be able to measure up to Oikawa, would never be able to lead his team to victory with the same confidence and grandeur as Oikawa probably could, probably already had.

Even now that Karasuno was headed for Tokyo and Oikawa was left with an empty slot in his afternoons, maybe because he wasn’t standing using his own two legs, Kageyama still felt small in comparison, felt like he was still under Oikawa’s mercy. It felt awful and he knew that it was irrational, that was all in the past, he didn’t owe Oikawa anything, but the thought was hard to push away, the feeling hard to swallow.

He wondered if Oikawa still felt like the one who was in control, too; if he still felt like he had the upper hand when it came to dealing with Kageyama.

These thoughts had been the ones to latch onto his attention as he aimlessly strolled around the more isolated areas of Aoba Johsai’s large campus. He probably should have been thinking about the fact that he was in Aoba Johsai in the first place and coming up with more brilliant ideas that Oikawa would probably _love to hear_ when they met up again, but it was hard not to think about Oikawa himself—how he was doing at practice, whether he was really at practice at all. The least he could do to calm his evident restlessness was to assume that Oikawa wasn’t bad enough a person to deliberately sabotage their team and, consequently, their chances at the most important high school volleyball tournament in the country.

Out in the snow, he shivered. He wished he had something other than just a scarf to keep him warm.

There _was_ something else that could keep him warm, though, and that was staying indoors. Kageyama looked around him; he wasn’t sure what part of the school he was in anymore, but it seemed easy enough to find his way back. Teachers probably wouldn’t take kindly to seeing him lurking in the hallway without a purpose other than to not turn into a popsicle, but it was a risk he was going to have to take. Teachers _liked_ Oikawa anyway; his face alone could probably get him off with a warning.

But as it turned out, he didn’t need to worry about the teachers at all. After a little while longer of less-aimless strolling, he chanced upon one of Seijoh’s gyms. The third gym, it looked like—the very gym they’d entered months ago for their first official practice match as a team against a school so tainted with elements from Kageyama’s past that it was almost painful to see it in his future. Even from where he was, even with the sound of the wind blowing, he could hear the familiar sounds of the ball, colliding with the floor and people’s palms and everything else they dared to hit it with—and just these sounds were enough to draw him. Without much thought, Oikawa’s legs were carrying him to the gym doors and he was inconspicuously peering inside, like an outsider.

Seijoh had considerably more members than Karasuno, to be sure, and watching each and every one of them hard at work, practicing with two different nets set up in their single gym would have been mesmerizing had his team in junior high not had similar arrangements. With difficulty, he managed to spot the regular members who remained, conducting their own individual practices: the reserve setter, the reckless blonde boy who resembled some sort of wild animal, the libero, and—a little off to the side—Kunimi and Kindaichi.

They were practicing serves, it looked like; Kunimi delivering a regular one and getting it cleanly into the other court and then laughing at Kindaichi’s attempt at a jump serve getting perfectly received by the net. The look on Kindaichi’s face was embarrassed—angry, even—but Kageyama knew him well enough and knew that it wasn’t genuine. He’d seen the genuine one more times than he could count, more times than he could recognize, and by the time that he did, it was too late and the ball was falling to the floor without anyone having tried to even touch it.

And he wasn’t sure he could recognize Kunimi’s smile, wasn’t sure if he even had the right to.

This probably wasn’t a good time to be thinking about this, not while he was illegally watching their practice, but Kageyama couldn’t help it. They seemed so happy and at home with each other (a side effect, probably, of being on the same team for four years and counting) and though he accepted that he was in Karasuno, knew he had a place there, he couldn’t shoo away the hypothetical scenarios, all the what-ifs swimming around in his head: what if he hadn’t become an oppressive king? What if he’d learned then that the spiker’s abilities was something he had to work with and not change for what he thought was the better play?

It was useless to even consider; there was no changing the past, after all. But as he stared at his old junior high teammates (almost-friends, ex-friends, what have you) poking fun at each other, he couldn’t help but picture himself in between them, wearing Aoba Johsai’s training uniform, maybe offering a snide remark or two and getting a reaction before suggesting that they get back to practice before the coach caught them slacking off.

“Hey, it’s Oikawa-san!”

Kageyama almost turned around to look for where Oikawa was before he realized that everyone in the gym—regular, benchwarmer, coach—was staring in his direction and that he was, indeed, Oikawa right now. He stiffened by the doorway, only now discovering that the entirety of Oikawa’s body was no longer behind the door, but there wasn’t much he could do; the boys in the gym were already wearing excited grins, flocking toward him like he was still their captain and he’d just called all of them to huddle.

It was like lunch all over again. Did Oikawa really have _that_ much of a presence that people couldn’t help but form circles around him when he came by?

In an effort to acknowledge that he was surrounded by Oikawa’s beloved volleyball juniors and not a bunch of rabid dogs, Kageyama attempted a smile and only managed to make his eyes a little wider (brighter, hopefully) and bite his lip. At least now his mouth would be a curve and not some dull, straight line. That probably counted for something, he thought as the members of Seijoh’s volleyball club all sent him their greetings. He could only respond with a brief, “Hi,” and small waves of his hand.

“Excuse me, who gave you permission to stop practice to crowd around people who aren’t supposed to be here anymore?” said one of Seijoh’s coaches who, Kageyama recognized, had yelled at Kunimi at one of their games together. Kageyama was grateful for his interference, but it was met by a chorus of groans and several people lethargically turning away and dragging themselves back to their posts.

“But Oikawa-san could train with us for the afternoon!” one of the more stubborn members cried, before turning to Kageyama. “That’s why you’re here, right?”

“O—oh, no,” Kageyama blurted out, and it was obviously the wrong thing to say because Oikawa’s once-teammates before him all looked either confused or offended. “I mean—I’m not really, uh, free today, but I just.” That wasn’t a complete sentence; he glanced nervously up at the ceiling. “I, um, ended up walking by, so I figured…”

It still wasn’t a complete sentence but apparently it sufficed. “You can’t depend on your upperclassmen for everything,” the coach continued. “If you want to get better, get back to the nets and work. Oikawa’s time here is done.”

Like he was just up and punched in the chest, Kageyama nearly had his breath knocked out of him. There it was again— _Oikawa’s time here is done—_ another blatant, excruciating reminder that months ago, he and his team had ended Oikawa’s high school volleyball career and became the ultimate reason that Kageyama had nothing to do this afternoon. It didn’t come to mind often (there were more important things to focus on) but every _damn_ time it did, Kageyama felt disoriented, out of sorts, like something wasn’t right in the world, and it shouldn’t have been that way. It was natural, after all. Only the winners could continue to stand on the court, the losers were forced out of it—and Oikawa was a loser that day.

He swallowed; it definitely didn’t feel right.

“Hey, Oikawa-san?”

He’d been so out of it he didn’t realize that the last of the boys gathered around him had dispersed and returned to practice, as facilitated by the louder, younger coach, leaving him standing alone by the doorway with the reserve setter to his left—the new captain, probably, because as far as he knew the only other second year that got to enter the court was that one blonde guy and _he_ definitely wouldn’t make a very good leader. The other setter had a hopeful sort of look on his face, looking up at Kageyama (to the other setter, Oikawa-san) with purpose. What purpose that was, Kageyama couldn’t be sure.

Until it was dawning on him that this was Seijoh’s new captain and Oikawa had been the former, that Oikawa’s shoes probably weren’t the easiest to fill and now the once-reserve setter was probably looking for advice on how to be a better captain—advice Kageyama didn’t have, because kings didn’t make very good captains, apparently. But even if he did have any, how sure was he that giving advice was something Oikawa did? After all, in all the months they’d spent together in Kitagawa Daiichi, Kageyama in the same position as this once-reserve setter was, he'd never heard any advice from Oikawa whatsoever, not even when he asked for it. He was as selfish as they came, Kageyama knew, but he didn’t know how to properly turn his (Oikawa’s) junior down.

“Hi,” Seijoh’s new captain greeted the moment Kageyama fully turned to face him. “Sorry, I know you’re just dropping by and you aren’t planning to stay long, but do you mind if I ask you something?”

Kageyama didn’t know; Oikawa hadn’t given any instructions pertaining to volleyball or the team because really, there wasn’t a need. Then again, he hadn’t been instructed to check on his juniors at practice either but here he was, so some things really were just up to his jurisdiction and circumstance. “Um, sure. I mean—no, I don’t mind.”

That was the most eloquent response he’d managed to give anyone today, but the setter looked perplexed. “Um, are you okay?” he asked cautiously. “You seem…mad.”

He felt all of his limbs abruptly stiffen and his eyes go wide. He wasn’t mad right now, not in the slightest, but if there was anything he learned from being in Karasuno and having to set to Hinata all the time, it was that he looked he looked mad no matter the time of day, no matter what he was doing; but did it _seriously_ still apply even when he was wearing Oikawa’s face and body?

Nervously, Kageyama managed a smile and pointed vigorously at it. “No, I’m not mad! I’m happy, see?”

The setter was terrified. “U—um, if you say so,” he stammered out, one foot moving to take a step back; Kageyama wanted to shove his own face and his awful smile against the wall. “Anyway, I just wanted to ask you a little about serving again.”

But just as quickly, there was no longer a smile to shove anywhere. “Serving?” he repeated, and then he narrowed his eyes. “ _Again?”_

“Yeah. I mean, you’ve given me a lot of advice about captaining and setting already, and I think I can work the rest out on my own pace, but—well, you not being on the team isn’t just us losing a great captain and setter, but a really good serve too. All the third years were really good at jump serves already but we second years, and especially the first years, haven’t quite…perfected it. I mean, Kyoutani’s is pretty strong, but half the time it just goes out.” He made an exasperated face; not that Kageyama was paying attention to his expressions. “You told us about the proper form before, but—um, would you have any tips for the right power? And control? If it’s not too much trouble, of course!”

No, was Kageyama’s immediate thought. No, he had no tips to give for the right power and the right control, because he’d asked Oikawa all of these questions millions of times before about three years ago, and he’d received some kind of insult or a completely unrelated reply each time. After a year of constant rejection, Kageyama had learned to just boil it down to Oikawa having a terrible personality, figured that the guy wouldn’t help anyone no matter how hard they begged or how legitimately they needed it, deserved it.

But then here was this once-reserve setter, looking up at him with expectant eyes and somehow, Kageyama could see himself—a mere junior high first year, a mere replacement to Oikawa on a team he’d practically spearheaded for years, equally doe-eyed and filled with hopes and dreams about matching his upperclassman’s talent—except they were different. Oikawa had actually bothered with this underclassman of his. He gave this one advice. He actually _helped_ this younger setter, _this_ time, didn’t just brush him off as annoying and stick his tongue out at him calling him stupid.

It had always been tolerable—but now it wasn’t. It just wasn’t.

Did Oikawa really hate him that much?

“Oikawa-san?” the setter was saying again, but the voice Kageyama heard was much younger—the voice of a twelve year old who knew nothing except how much he loved volleyball.

“Sorry,” Kageyama grumbled, but he wasn’t sorry at all—not for spacing out, not for jamming his hands in his pockets and saying, “I’m mad after all. I have to go,” and not sorry for quickly walking away and out of the gym.

 

* * *

 

Kageyama could hardly understand why he’d gotten so upset over something minor, over something he’d established for himself years ago, over something that _ended_ years ago and should’ve been forgotten because he was his own person now, he didn’t need Oikawa, he knew how to do a jump serve and do everything else just fine, and everything left for him to learn, he could easily learn by himself. But what he really didn’t understand was his body’s sour demeanour (which Oikawa seemed to be pulling off far too well; a deep frown, crossed arms, pursed lips, back against the wall) as it stood waiting behind the Kitagawa Daiichi building.

If this were anyone else before him, Kageyama would have asked how practice had gone. He was feeling under the weather himself but he was a little better at dealing with that now, could at least still function as a human being without snapping at people every two seconds, but he wasn’t entirely sure whether Oikawa, currently in his body and looking far too pissed off to be normal, was the same. And so he kept silent as he approached.

The first thing Oikawa did was send him a brief yet scathing glare, and then he was heaving a sigh and pushing off the wall. “Like I was saying earlier,” he said, and even Kageyama was surprised by how upset he sounded, “I remembered something that happened yesterday that might have something to do with this. When I got home from school, I was all alone and there was an earthquake that nobody else felt.”

An earthquake—the word clicked inside Kageyama’s head. “I felt that too,” he said quickly, and Oikawa’s expression was lightening, minimally. “I was in the bathroom, reading this weird fortune—“

“Fortune? What do you mean, fortune?”

“Like, from a cookie.”

“You got a fortune cookie too?” Oikawa demanded, and Sugawara’s voice was rushing into Kageyama’s head, declaring that he had run into one of Seijoh’s volleyball team’s regulars as he purchased the bag from a convenience store just yesterday morning. “That’s what I was doing before the earthquake, yeah—reading the fortune. What did it say? Do you have it with you?”

“Um.” Memories of yesterday were hazy, the abrupt arrival of an earthquake that nobody had foreseen or even felt shaking everything else out of Kageyama’s system. He’d been reading the slip of paper but he’d rushed out of the bathroom so fast that its whereabouts were almost completely alien to him. “I—I can’t remember.”

Oikawa rolled his eyes. “Of _course_ you can’t.”

Kageyama’s thoughts had been wrong; he still was pretty easily aggravated after all. He narrowed his eyes at Oikawa’s snarky face. “Well, where’s yours then?”

“I threw it out, like a reasonable person.”

“Not very reasonable considering we need it.”

“Well, at least I can _remember_ I threw it out,” Oikawa snapped, eyes and voice equally fierce, his earlier irate presence back and more evident than ever. “If you think you’re being helpful by fighting me over every little thing, then you’ve never been more wrong, Tobio.”

Clearly he was more than just annoyed, but Kageyama could no longer be intimidated by it, even if he tried. As far as he knew, Oikawa didn’t have any legitimate reasons to be this upset with him and even if he did, that wasn’t any excuse for his behaviour when Kageyama was trying his best to be civil despite his own messed-up mood. He glared right back. “I didn’t fight any fights you didn’t start first,” he said. “I never have.”

It felt as though ghosts from the past, from this very building, were clinging to his limbs and dragging him down with a weight that he honestly shouldn’t have been able to feel and he hated it, hated it so much, how tied down he was to things he thought for sure he’d gotten over. But when he was with Oikawa, it was like everything was invalidated—like he was sent back in time and nothing had changed, like he was still that small boy with dreams and potential to become a tyrant King of the Court everyone would come to hate. It made his lip tremble slightly but he held his ground, glared ferociously when Oikawa did.

Oikawa’s hand was balled into a fist, but he didn’t look as enraged as he did earlier. He blinked up, still frowning, at Kageyama for a while before biting his lip and turning away. “Our best chance is going to my house and digging through the trash,” he said, not exactly calm, but at least not livid. “If we find it and fix this mess, we’re never going to have any fights again.”

Kageyama nearly asked how sure he was of that, but then the logic was sinking in: they couldn’t have any fights if they didn’t see each other.

It didn’t improve his mood.

Nothing could, it seemed. Even as they put distance between them and the building that held all the regrets and failures from childhood, even during the painfully silent walk back to Oikawa’s home, all they could do was scowl at nothing, glower at everything. And it must have been an odd sight to passers-by but Kageyama couldn’t care less; he just wanted some peace and quiet and time alone after a long day of nothing but people he didn’t even know.

There was no need to speak even as they entered the Oikawa residence. No one was home, thankfully, and there was no need to explain to anybody why he had a guest over, no need to introduce his own body to Oikawa’s family or anything of the sort, and that was probably for the best. He didn’t think he wanted anything to do with Oikawa’s parents, considering how heavily their son seemed to despise him. Quietly, faces still stiff, they climbed the stairs to Oikawa’s room in the hope of a successful scavenge through the trash.

But when one bad thing happened, a shit-load of other bad things followed after, apparently—and they were met by a clean waste basket, completely devoid of any trash to dig through and, subsequently, the slip of paper from the fortune cookie.

Oikawa’s exhale was burdened. He looked at Kageyama. “You _really_ don’t remember where you put yours?”

He still sounded mean-spirited, but not like he was looking for another argument, so Kageyama simply shook his head.

“Well. It’s the dumpster for us, then.”

It sucked. Absolutely, completely, without a doubt, _sucked._ Kageyama could think of a million other better things to be doing with his life after school, but instead of doing anything remotely close to those things, he was here, living in Oikawa’s body, his actual body right next to him but with Oikawa inside, heaving open a dumpster in a completely unfamiliar neighbourhood, bearing with the smells and sights that came with that just to find a piece of paper scarcely bigger than his thumb. He wasn’t a squeamish kind of person but even he had to draw the line somewhere, so when Oikawa gave him an expectant stare, he only glared back.

He didn’t think he’d ever see his face look so disgusted. “Try and find it,” Oikawa said.

“Why me?”

“I’m already holding it open.”

“Then I’ll hold it open and you can go dig for it. It’s yours, anyway.”

“Don’t,” Oikawa warned dangerously, “circle back to this.  If there were any other way, you know that this wouldn’t be an option. I’m holding it open, your house—“ If it was even possible, his face became even more grim “—is right there, and you’re free to take a shower. Meanwhile, if I get trash all over myself, it’ll be _your body_ people will smell on the streets, not mine. Now dig!”

Kageyama wasn’t sure what he hated more—the tone of Oikawa’s voice or the fact that he had a good point. Several of them, actually, and so no matter what he did hate more, he gave an exacerbated huff before inching his face closer towards the big dump of garbage, holding his breath as best he could, and then reaching inside and moving around.

It wasn’t all grime and mould but the fact that it could be was infinitely gross. Kageyama wrinkled his nose as he shoved away empty cans and paper boxes and faded wrappers of who knew what, unsure how he was supposed to accomplish anything in these conditions, pretty sure that he was just wasting his time.

Again, he turned to Oikawa, who looked just as nauseated as he did. “Do you really expect to find anything like this? The paper is really small, isn’t it? It could’ve sank all the way to the bottom by now,” he complained. “And even if it hasn’t, how are we even supposed to see it with all this junk in the way?”

“What do _you_ think we should do, then?” Oikawa shot back. “Sit around and meditate until we reach enlightenment and remember where the hell you could’ve put _your_ fortune?”

His voice was once again rising in a way that told Kageyama to expect confrontation and a whole lot of yelling, but at this point, he couldn’t be surprised, couldn’t even will himself to keep his composure. Maybe he craved it too. Maybe he needed to yell, needed a little venting, because this situation was inconvenient for the both of them and he couldn’t stand Oikawa strutting around acting like the only victim all the time.

“I didn’t say that,” he snapped back, raising his own voice. “Could you maybe go two seconds without being so sarcastic?”

“Hmm, I don’t know, could you maybe go two seconds without being a complete moron?”

“I’m trying to be realistic and I’m trying to help!”

“So am I!”

“Really? Because it doesn’t help that you have to be so disagreeable all the time—“

“Oh, _I’m_ disagreeable?”

“You are! You have been since we met up at Kitagawa Daiichi and I don’t get it—I haven’t done anything to you, so why the _hell_ are you so _angry?”_

“ _Because I HATE THIS.”_

Oikawa threw his hand down, shutting the dumpster with a loud _SLAM_ that could have echoed throughout the entire neighbourhood. Both of their bodies jumped, the fury on their faces getting chased away by shock and unease. Oikawa drew in a sharp breath, blinking blankly up at Kageyama and then the rest of the world as if he was just realizing how loudly he’d yelled, but just as quickly he was biting his lip, face contorting in displeasure, and he was looking down and shrinking into himself like never before.

“I hate this. I don’t _want_ to be in your body anymore,” he whined. It made him sound like a little kid but Kageyama didn’t dare bring it up—not after hearing the slight tremble in his own voice, his voice that was currently under Oikawa’s control.

Instead, he gripped tightly at the hem of Oikawa’s blazer, images of Seijoh’s new captain with that hopeful look in his eyes flashing in the back of his mind, and swallowing so deeply it was probably audible. “Me too,” he whined right back, now only realizing just how cruel life truly was.

To have put him in this situation was one thing, but out of all the people circumstance could have chosen to get him all tangled up with, did it really have to be the one person who made Kageyama feel twelve again?

 

* * *

 

Oikawa couldn’t understand what about Kageyama set him on edge every time they spoke, what about Kageyama made everything he’d ever worked for suddenly invalid and make him feel like a fourteen-year old still on the verge of a physical and mental breakdown. He couldn’t understand, and though honestly their time by the dumpster could have gone a million times better, he figured there was no going around how angry he’d gotten, no way to prevent his hostility or his yelling, no way to contain his jealousy—just like years ago.

Now, however, he was nothing but numb as he headed to Kageyama’s home instead of his own because he was unfortunately still in Kageyama’s body, wearing Kageyama’s clothes, and wielding Kageyama’s bag. The only thing of his that was currently in possession, in fact, was his homework for the day. He’d demanded to trade with Kageyama right after he’d asked for directions back home (“I am _not_ doing your homework and there’s no way I’m letting you fuck up mine. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning, same place, to switch back.”) and though he didn’t particularly like homework it felt like the only semblance of himself he had left.

Could there be anything more downing than that?

In all fairness, maybe he shouldn’t have been so harsh. Kageyama, after all, was in the exact same situation as he was, dealing with practically the same things (and most probably having a more difficult time, considering his lack of basic social skills) and of course he hated the predicament just as much as Oikawa did. It was the absolute worst thing that could happen to them, the most effective way to be reminded of everything they didn’t and could never have.

Or so he was thinking until he stopped at the address Kageyama had given him and found his house, completely devoid of light even in the dark of night.

It was an unfamiliar experience, coming home without anyone to greet, but Oikawa didn’t think too much of it as he pulled out Kageyama’s key, unlocked the front door, and flicked on the entrance hall lights himself. It was a fairly simple house, as most were—just enough for a small family—and though he’d really rather not play the tourist in what was supposed to be his long-time place of residence, he couldn’t help but look at the few photos lined up on a narrow table by the stairs. Most of them were from important events during Kageyama’s early childhood (he looked to be but three years old in one of the photos, seated on the grass, mouth and face covered in baby food; Oikawa smiled despite his foul mood), his parents flanking him, all three of them looking quite happy.

A photo of Kageyama’s junior high graduation looked to be the most recent one—and the most out of place too, because unlike the others wherein Kageyama and his mother and father were all brightly smiling into the camera, both Kageyama and his mother had rather serious expressions on, like neither of them looked particularly happy to be standing where they were. And Kageyama’s father wasn’t there at all.

He simply turned away from the pictures though and, unsure if he was free to grab food from the refrigerator whenever he wanted or if there were certain ground rules that needed to be followed, Oikawa elected to simply head upstairs to do his homework, figuring that he could wait for Kageyama’s parents to get home before making any hasty decisions.

But as the night deepened, as his answers to the homework questions gradually filled up his once-empty paper, not a single sound came from the house other than his rapid scribbling and occasional stretching. He’d gotten hungry, went downstairs and grabbed some fruit from a bowl on the dining table and snacked on it, returned upstairs and examined some of Kageyama’s magazines—and just like that, it was nearing ten o’clock without a single sign of life from the front door or anywhere outside. Silence reigned over this house, truly, and the same could be said about its occupants. Oikawa didn’t think he’d ever gone this long without saying a single word.

He wondered if _Kageyama_ had to go this long every day without saying a single word. If he did, it was no wonder he was so quiet.

Done with homework, left with nothing to do (Kageyama didn’t seem to have a computer), Oikawa plopped himself on Kageyama’s high bed, turned off the lights, didn’t shut his eyes and instead just stared up at the ceiling, trying to figure out why his chest was heavy, why he felt as empty as Kageyama’s house, and thinking: this was the absolute worst thing that could happen to him, the most effective way he could be reminded of everything he didn’t and could never have, and some sort of fucked up way in which he could see the things Kageyama didn’t have either.

It didn’t improve his mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like if oikawa were to have a tumblr, he’d have kageyama tobio blacklisted, narrow his eyes everytime xkit hides a post because it contains the phrase, but then unhide the post and read every single word on it anyway
> 
> also just another shameless plug. in my [other fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7690177) i mentioned an oikage zine and, just in case you didn't know again, [PREORDERS HAVE OPENED](http://oikagezine.tictail.com/)!! i'll be getting it myself, because i'm a contributor and need physical proof that i achieved something in life lmao. if you have cash you'd like to give to charity and an infinite hunger for awesome oikage art and writing, they're accepting preorders till valentine's!
> 
>  
> 
> [wow so many links i wonder what this could be](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kakkoweeb/profile)


	4. it won't be granted by merely breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A struggle against the limitations of language and the average male teenage brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> petty author confession: i didn't want to post this until the 100th kudos came around so i could see it in real time. so!! congrats to ao3 user @espionne for being the 100th kudos lmao yes i took note. thanks a lot! you're the reason for this update.
> 
> also i aCCIDENTALLY POSTED THIS BEFORE I WAS READY and i couldn't access my backup copy so i had to just live with it. my editing process--deterred---

Somehow, the following morning, Oikawa managed to stop himself from gracelessly falling out of bed for the second time in a single week, but it wasn’t exactly anything he could be happy about. Given that he was currently still lying in a bed that he could fall off of meant that he still wasn’t in his own bed and was, instead, in Kageyama’s—and _that_ meant that he was still in Kageyama’s body even though an entire day and an entire night of waiting it out had already passed which was, needless to say, not good news.

There were a lot of things he could be feeling right now—anger, exasperation, frustration, anxiety; the list could go on and on and the items could easily mix and mingle. But no, finally being able to get some of his pent-up emotions out through harsh words and yelling still left him numb, managed to turn him into an unfeeling, hollow shell of a boy that was currently in the wrong body. Still lying by the edge of his bed, he let out a dull groan, heard Kageyama’s voice instead of his, and wanted to smack his forehead.

It was going to be another tiresome day of living Kageyama’s life and dealing with Kageyama’s problems, thought Oikawa bitterly as he sat up, and he cleared his throat. Had he not argued so heavily yesterday, his voice would probably be less than pleasant right about now, raspy from underuse; and had he been in his own body, he’d be drastically searching for skin care products because he could physically _feel_ the early wrinkles forming on his face, given how it had been everything _except_ a smile for an entire twenty-four hours and more.

How did Kageyama live like this?

The lack of three proper meals thoroughly catching up with his stomach, Oikawa headed out of Kageyama’s room and back downstairs to the kitchen, half expecting to see fresh, hot breakfast laid out for him on the table like it usually was in his actual home. But of course, that would be asking for too much, and once again, like yesterday and the previous night, every room in the house that he currently wasn’t in had absolutely no signs of life. He sighed, glad that he hadn’t woken up too late, and yanked the fridge open to get his own breakfast started.

As he ate, he couldn’t help but wander around the house, wondering if there was truly anyone else who lived here, and as he reached the front door he'd found, not only the answer, but a new pair of shoes waiting at the bottom of the single stair step right before the entrance hall, right next to the ones he’d taken off last night. They were a woman’s, no doubt, and for some reason Oikawa couldn’t identify, they seemed to make him glad. Not glad enough, however, because judging from the silence and solitude, it didn’t seem as though Kageyama saw this woman as often as he should, even if they _were_ both home.

That was actually kind of sad, Oikawa thought as he headed back upstairs to get ready for school. His life as it was now had its ups and downs but if there was one thing in it that stayed constant, it was the presence of his family, the closeness that they had that seemed routine and that Oikawa wouldn’t trade for anything. He wondered if Kageyama’s inefficient habits when it came to dealing with other people had deeper roots after all, tried to keep himself from feeling guilty that he’d been so quick to get mad at the boy for no reason he could explain the day before, failed, gritted his teeth and slammed the bathroom door harder than he should have.

Once he was dressed and _finally_ able to locate where Kageyama kept his comb, Oikawa grabbed his homework from the table and unzipped Kageyama’s bag. He didn’t have any folders or any other helpful organizational tools that might allow Oikawa to safely store loose sheets of paper, and upon closer inspection of the supplies stuffed inside the thing, Oikawa discovered that any loose sheets Kageyama did have were all folded and sandwiched in between random pages in his notebooks. He huffed, stared at his perfectly neat homework sheet, and—repulsed—took out a notebook he might be able to put it in.

When he opened one in the hope of converting it to safe storage, several rumpled-up sheets of paper promptly fell out and onto the floor. Clicking his tongue, Oikawa set his homework sheet neatly back on the desk and moved to get Kageyama’s stuff back in order, maybe throw out some things he deemed unnecessary. Nearly all of it was just scratch paper after all, some of them even containing doodles like the grid of a volleyball net and a feeble attempt at drawing a water bottle. Oikawa smirked, folded all the papers together, and tucked them properly in a single space in the notebook.

One last paper was left behind on the ground though; one Oikawa nearly threw out because it was so small it may as well have been ripped off from the packaging of a snack and then carelessly stowed inside Kageyama’s bag. But then he remembered the last time he’d thought it common sense to throw a tiny piece of paper out and then he was freezing in place, eyes wide and slowly blinking for a good few seconds, until he was hurriedly straightening the slip out and reading the first of four typewritten lines:

_A journey soon begins,_

—and that was all he needed. He heaved Kageyama’s bag on his shoulder, snatched his homework sheet off the desk, and ran out of the house.

 

* * *

 

In all his rush to get to Kitagawa Daiichi and present the piece of paper that had miraculously appeared before him to the only other concerned party in the situation, Oikawa had nearly forgotten that yesterday afternoon had been nothing but sour faces and high tempers—and so when he neared his old junior high and found his own body standing there, leaning against the wall and looking surly, his brisk walk had slowed before completely coming to a stop, his expression of high energy and near-enthusiasm falling flat and going sombre, just like Kageyama’s was.

He didn’t look upset, per se. Yes, he wasn’t moving much and his eyes were trained on the ground like there wasn’t anything in the world he’d rather be looking at, but he was Kageyama after all—even if he _was_ in Oikawa’s body—and it was a regular thing with him. Still, something felt different about his gloomy exterior today, something that made Oikawa’s insides churn in a less than pleasant way. It was probably because he’d never seen his own body look so grim, he told himself. That had to be it.

It was a pretty good reminder that they’d had their first legitimate fight yesterday, though.

That wasn’t going to happen today, he thought, bracing himself to approach as carefully as possible so as to not trigger anything dangerous. Things were looking up and though nothing was fixed yet, they were going to get there, the two of them, by getting along. Hopefully. He took a deep breath and resumed his walk, at a regular pace this time.

“You’ll never guess what I found this morning,” he decided to start with, keeping his tone of voice lively, and for good measure too—when Kageyama had looked up from his spot by the wall, he looked considerably more agreeable. Not that he had been problematically disagreeable at any time recently. Oikawa held the small slip in between his fingers. “I found it stuffed inside your bag.”

Immediately, Kageyama moved closer to inspect it, and if Oikawa didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn his eyes had lit up. “The fortune! I put it in my bag?” he seemed to ask no one in particular as he smoothed the tiny thing over with two fingers. “Huh. I don’t remember doing that—“

He quickly tensed and stole a glance at Oikawa, clearing his throat; Oikawa held onto his sigh. “Do you think it’ll tell us something about what’s happening?” Kageyama continued.

“Won’t hurt to give it a read and see,” said Oikawa, leaning closer to Kageyama to get a better look at the text on the paper.  


_A journey soon begins,_

_its prize reflected in another’s eyes._

_When what you see is what you lack,_

_then selfless love will change you back._

“It’s in English,” Kageyama pointed out, grimacing slightly. “I didn’t really get it when I read it and I still don’t get it now. Do you?”

Oikawa couldn’t really say he was excellent at it, but his English was fair for a high school student, and so he narrowed his eyes at the text, decidedly starting with the first line. “’ _A journey soon begins’,”_ he read out in English, and Kageyama looked at him. “ _Journey—_ like travelling? Or a quest or something. And then…’ _its prize reflected in another’s eyes’?”_ That was a little harder to translate. It hardly sounded like a properly-formed sentence. “Well, _prize_ is a reward, so maybe it’s talking about getting back to our own bodies.”

Kageyama beside him nodded fervently.

This was almost a casual conversation, thought Oikawa as he trailed his eyes on the third line. Just barely, but it was better than anything they’d exchanged the previous day. “’ _When what you see is what you lack’._ Um—when what you see is what you miss? Something missing? Something like that.” Oikawa shook his head; English was ridiculous. “ _’Then selfless love will change you back’._ Change you back! It’s talking about us getting back, through—“

He stopped, rereading the entire line again. “Selfless love?” he repeated, looking closer at the typewritten text.

No longer as eager and rejuvenated as he was earlier, Oikawa looked nervously to Kageyama, who was also regarding the paper with something akin to confusion. “It really says selfless love?” he asked. “What—what does that even mean?”

“Selfless love. You know, like, um. Love—“

“Well, yeah,” Kageyama cut in, agreeing to something Oikawa hadn’t even said yet, “but how do we use it to get back into our own bodies?”

How, indeed. Oikawa himself wasn’t sure, and for a while could do nothing but swallow and allow his eyes to further absorb what the fortune had to offer. No, his English wasn’t exactly what he’d call the best and he was certain there were things he’d inevitably lost in translation, but given what he _did_ manage to translate correctly—of going on a journey, of selfless love being the key to getting everything back to the way it was—he didn’t think there were plenty of other interpretations, other than—

Well, this was going to be difficult to word out.

“Uh,” he started, making a face down at the paper. “I think—I think it’s saying we have to…show our love?”

“Our love for what?”

And _of course_ Kageyama wouldn’t make it any easier for him. Oikawa wasn’t sure he had it in him to make words at this point without straining something important. He bit his lip, closed his eyes for a but a brief second in a silent prayer to whatever entity of fate was putting him through this, before looking up to the sky and, finally, at Kageyama. “I think the better question here is: for _who,_ Tobio.”

In an instant, Kageyama’s face was moving from puzzlement to absolute bewilderment, maybe even a little horror—the expression more suited to Oikawa’s body’s face than any other one that he’d pulled in the last two days. His body was still but his eyes moved everywhere they could: up and down and side to side—his thoughts probably struggling to catch up with the reality of their situation, trying its best to comprehend what it was they had to do and _why in the hell_ they had to do any of it—before they were also, _finally_ , settling back on Oikawa.

“Uh,” was all he said for a while, and although it was far from eloquent, Oikawa couldn’t blame him for it this time around. He wasn’t doing particularly well with words at the moment either. “How? I mean—“ He seemed to wince. “I don’t…love you?”

“Right back at you,” Oikawa retorted, frowning but careful not to add too much bite to what was already a subtle and non-surprising bark. He shrugged, tried to keep it noncommittal, but his shoulders were far too tense for his liking. “I don’t know—what do people who love each other usually do?”

Kageyama seemed to consider this with some difficulty, staring up at the sky deep in thought, and Oikawa wondered if he’d ever actually found someone to love other than his family, considering that no one that fit the description made their way into Kageyama’s instructions and day-to-day itinerary. He loved volleyball, probably, but that didn’t really apply here. “They—“ he began, glancing at Oikawa, nervously. “They hug?”

It was a considerably naive answer and honestly something he should’ve expected, but Oikawa could feel his skin crawling all the same as he swallowed, almost as nervous as Kageyama looked. “Well…that’s not wrong, I guess,” he mumbled, getting vague recollections of the same time yesterday morning, when they were formulating plans to simulate some sort of physical push that might shake their souls back into their correct places. “It sounds like enough of a sacrifice.” Kageyama frowned further. “You, uh—should we try it?”

Today it was a hug. He didn’t know which he preferred between the two.

“I guess,” Kageyama said, blinking down at the ground and then at Oikawa in quick succession, and the discomfort in his general appearance made it clear he’d rather run at Oikawa and painfully knock their foreheads together rather than embrace him. Completely understandable, but still, he briefly chewed on his lip before slowly lifting his arms, spreading them one awkward step at a time, his face getting more and more apprehensive.

Oikawa was doing his best not to cringe, but as he took a step closer and fit himself in the space between Kageyama’s arms and wrapped his arms around his own body’s shoulders, as Kageyama reluctantly completed the gesture by settling his hands right at the centre of his own body’s back, that proved to be impossible.

This had to be the most awkward hug to have ever been performed in the middle of an empty street behind a junior high school. Oikawa’s cringe could no longer be contained; not as the long, painful silence stretched on.

“Is it working?” Kageyama asked.

“No.”

They quickly separated.

“Okay, so not that,” Oikawa quickly said, fastening his arms to his sides, unsurprised but infinitely uncomfortable. Kageyama before him evidently felt the same and didn’t bother hiding it, staring at his hands like they’d just touched something radioactive. Well since he’d just hugged his own body, he might as well have; Oikawa tried to keep from sneering. “Any other ideas?”

Kageyama shook his head.

As expected, nothing had gone their way for the second morning in a row. Oikawa sighed as he glanced at his watch, frowning at the time, wordlessly nudging him to begin his trek to school in the hope of saving both his and Kageyama’s bodies from lectures they didn’t deserve. He grabbed Kageyama’s phone from his pocket and opened up the camera application. “Here,” he said, struggling to get the camera to focus on the fortune. He snapped a picture. “You take this paper and I’ll keep this picture so we can keep thinking of ideas for the rest of the day. We’ll meet back here a—“

He stopped, left his mouth open to suck in a breath, eyes locking with his body’s almost expectant ones. “After volleyball practice,” he muttered begrudgingly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Kageyama’s sagging in relief. “Do I really have to go? I don’t play the way you do, and yesterday, they all thought there was something wrong with me.”

“That’s fine,” Kageyama said, and Oikawa made a face at him. “Wait—no, it’s not fine, but—“ He paused, sighed out of his nose. “As long as you’re there and you make it seem like you’re in condition, it should be fine.”

“But if I can’t do your special moves with your shrimp, what are they going to think?”

“It doesn’t matter for now, as long as they don’t know you’re not doing it because you can’t,” said Kageyama, after a brief contemplative pause. “Maybe try and come up with an excuse not to practice with Hinata, or just—not to practice _that_ in particular with Hinata. It’s not like I haven’t done it before; they’re not going to think too much about it.”

Kageyama having refused to practice with his partner raised a lot of questions Oikawa no longer had time to ask, but he supposed it wasn’t his business at the moment. What _was_ his business, however, was making sure that the homework he’d slaved over last night would get the credit it was due. He reached inside his bag and pulled it out of one of the notebooks. “Here, hand this in. Try and straighten it out in the clear file, please, it looks hideous. You should really get yourself one so you’re not just folding your homework sheets in your notebooks,” he said, watching as Kageyama took the clear file out of his bag and complied. He kept his hand extended. “Where’s yours?”

“My what?”

“Your…homework? I gave you some yesterday, right?”

“Oh.” Kageyama wordlessly stuffed the clear file back in his bag. “Uh, I didn’t do it.”

Oikawa frowned. “Why not?”

“I…fell asleep.”

“So, what, I’m just not going to hand anything in?”

“I’ve done that before too; it’ll be fine.”

He highly doubted that, but there was nothing else Oikawa could do other than shrug and accept it. It wasn’t _his_ performance that was going to suffer anyway, and if he’d done it before, his teachers probably wouldn’t demand too in-depth of an explanation. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll text you when practice is over. Don’t forget to go to Iwa-chan’s classroom today.”

Kageyama uncomfortably tugged on the hem of his blazer, but otherwise nodded. “See you later.”

“Mm.” Oikawa turned away to leave—but then something was abruptly stopping him in step, making his entire body stiffen and twist to watch his own body sullenly retreat, and then he was calling out, “Tobio.”

Tobio turned to face him.

Oikawa didn’t exactly feel like apologizing, didn’t explicitly feel _sorry_ —he was in a sour mood, they both were, and it actually did him some good to raise his voice, to be able to outright express some things he’d likely keep to himself on normal days. However, an argument was an argument, and regardless of anything Kageyama had yelled back at him, it was strikingly clear that it was he who’d yelled first, that it probably _was_ unnecessary for him to be so sarcastic.

Still, he hesitated, once again unable to say the proper words outright. “Uh,” he tried, “are—are my body’s ears okay?”

“…what?”

“I mean.” Oikawa could feel himself shrinking. “Our voices were—pretty loud yesterday. Are they okay?”

It didn’t sound anything close to an apology; in fact, it only seemed to make him sound like a self-centred prick who didn’t care about anybody’s well-being but his own. But to his relief, Kageyama didn’t look put off, even looked as though he understood. He cocked his head towards the ground, stuffed in his hands in his pockets, and almost shyly looked up at Oikawa from underneath his hair and lashes.

“They’re fine, I think,” he mumbled. “What—what about mine?”

“They’re okay,” he replied, and it sounded as good as any apology and declaration of forgiveness could ever be. He took a step back. “We should hurry. Don’t wanna be late.”

“Yeah.”

They parted ways, a little bit self-conscious, but a little bit lighter.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t exactly fallen asleep on his homework—not accidentally anyway. Kageyama’s return to the Oikawa residence the previous day was still fresh in his memory: how he’d emerged from the shower met by bustling noises coming from downstairs, the kitchen more specifically, and how only a few minutes later a woman’s voice declaring dinner was echoing throughout the house. He’d taken a few moments to compose himself, to try and conjure explanations as to why he’d skipped breakfast and neglected to pick up lunch, before heading downstairs and into the dining area.

Oikawa’s parents were pleasant folk from the get go; happy, chatty. His mother had a lot of questions to ask and it put Kageyama in an uncomfortable position seeing as it wasn’t his life but her son’s she was asking about, but her genuinely-interested tone of voice was enough to coax basic, almost naturally-flowing answers out from his mouth. He hadn’t been branded too quiet or lacking in stories, and it felt like he’d actually gotten one part of Oikawa’s daily itinerary right.

It quickly became two parts when his father started discussing a recently-broadcasted volleyball match that Kageyama himself had managed to watch. One of the setters had been so skilled, so in control of the game, and he only realized how much he’d ranted when Oikawa’s mother was rolling her eyes, getting up, and muttering about volleyball freaks.

High on the success that dinner with the family had brought, he’d headed up to Oikawa’s room considerably more light-hearted than he’d been all day. He’d sat himself on the bed, taking in what he wasn’t able to in his rush the past morning, taking particular interest in the expensive-looking computer situated atop Oikawa’s desk. All sides of the screen had been incredibly smooth to the touch, and in all its glory, his fingers had accidentally brushed against the switch and he couldn’t help but flinch when it had booted up, a unique sound effect echoing throughout the room as the screen shone to life.

The device was password-protected but it had only taken him a few attempts to break into the system after having found the password hint (“Who’s the best?”; he’d tried a few variations of the words ‘me’ and ‘Seijoh’ before finally figuring out that it was ‘notshiratorizawa’ and smiling to himself) and immediately what greeted him was Seijoh’s complete team, set as the desktop background. Oikawa sat right at the heart of the photo, smiling his brightest, and Kageyama had tried to mimic the action while looking in the mirror before debating whether or not to cover the thing with a sheet for the night.

Oikawa probably wouldn’t be too happy with him about this, but he _did_ spend a little more time navigating his way through the files and folders. A lot of the contents of the Documents folder were school-related, the Pictures folder seemed to take up a lot of the space on the disk—no surprise there—and his music mostly consisted of pop songs by artists Kageyama didn’t recognize, some of them coming from the West.

He hadn’t expected to find anything interesting in the Videos folder but it was where he’d ended up focusing the rest of the night, after having found a subfolder called ‘Matches’. He’d never clicked on a folder faster in his life and when it opened, what he saw were, indeed, volleyball matches, gathered over a two-year period it seemed, sporting titles like ‘Shiratorizawa vs. Date Tech’ and the likes—except for two, cleverly named only ‘Tobio: the first’ and ‘Tobio: the rematch’.

Well, he didn’t really need to guess what _those_ meant.

He didn’t particularly like the events of ‘Tobio: the first’ so he clicked on the rematch instead, eyes fixated on Oikawa’s very first serve of the game—the very first serve that they’d managed to score a point with. Without really thinking about it, he’d wound up pumping a fist, letting out a pleased grunt, at the sight of his own team’s victories—the initial shock after Nishinoya’s toss, Azumane’s excellent serve, his own tosses connecting perfectly with his teammates’ spikes and getting past blockers.

There was something a little bit more important than that, though, and when he’d remembered it, he was clutching at the mouse and fast forwarding the video further into the match, incessantly clicking forward or backward on the track depending on the need, until he found it: Iwaizumi covering the back of his head, Kindaichi looking disoriented—

—and Oikawa by the service line, throwing the ball up, jumping, and hitting the strongest, fastest serve he’d ever seen.

It had gone out and that was honestly a blessing, but Kageyama was leaning far too close to the screen anyway, repeating the clip over and over again in an effort to trace the path of the ball, observe Oikawa’s form, try and figure out how exactly he did it. It was the best serve he’d seen from Oikawa yet, and he remembered how badly he’d wanted to try it for himself immediately after, how thoroughly he had to convince himself not to out of fear of putting their team and their excellent position at risk.

Oikawa truly was amazing.

And that was when a knock sounded on his door, the wood muffling the call of, “Tooru?” right before swinging open. He’d craned his neck to face Oikawa’s mother, who met his eyes for but a brief second before hers were falling on the computer screen, now playing a volleyball match. She’d sighed. “Tooru, I hope you’re not planning on pulling another all-nighter watching those matches. I know you have a hard time, but the lights from your screen aren’t going to help you sleep easier.”

Kageyama had to keep his face from expressing confusion.

“Try and get some shut-eye soon, okay?” she said, shutting the door after his nod.

Up till now, he wasn’t sure whether he’d interpreted Oikawa’s mother’s sentiments correctly, but despite how badly he’d wanted to watch the rest of the match, maybe scrutinize the offensive serve that had actually landed inside the court, and despite the fact that he had homework waiting to be accomplished, he’d shut the computer down, took one last obligatory trip to the bathroom, and powered off the lights. He’d laid Oikawa’s body on its back on the futon, the only thing on his mind as he drifted off to sleep being whether or not it had been getting the proper amount lately.

All of that had been yesterday. Today was a new day, another day of pretending to confidently saunter around Aoba Johsai as the famous Oikawa, and though he’d been less than excited when he’d woken up earlier in the day, the morning hadn’t been so bad. He’d handed in Oikawa’s homework and had managed to elude getting volunteered for any board-related endeavour. He’d scribbled down notes on a separate sheet once again and managed to make it slightly more understandable, making a mental note to copy it all down as neatly as possible in Oikawa’s actual notebook if it was still his job to do by the afternoon.

But best of all, he’d managed to find Iwaizumi’s classroom in one piece (he was Class 5, apparently) and was now sitting inside it, eating actual food Oikawa’s mother had handed it to him before he left that morning.

It was probably still quiet, relative to all the conversation Iwaizumi probably had with the actual Oikawa in a single day, but neither of them bothered to bring it up this time—Iwaizumi focused on eating, Kageyama more focused on Iwaizumi himself, what he would think if he were to find out about the crazy situation. Oikawa had said nobody would believe them, but Kageyama had always thought Iwaizumi to be sensible, even during the worst of times. He’d probably want to help them if he found out and didn’t think they were insane. He’d probably help Kageyama pretend to be Oikawa and it would be a whole lot easier.

He’d probably have something to say about how they were going to return to normal. Kageyama hadn’t stopped thinking about that either, Oikawa’s translation of the fortune. _Selfless love._ He didn’t think he could qualify what that even really was, let alone use it in order to get his soul to fly back to the correct body. How was he supposed to show selfless love for someone he _didn’t_ love? What did it mean to show selfless love in the first place?

Kageyama as he was now, he figured, had no way of knowing. But if there was anything he’d learned upon transferring to Karasuno, it was that asking for help when there were people around to give it wasn’t a bad thing, not a bad thing at all. And so he glanced at Iwaizumi, calmly chewing before him, and set his lunch down.

“Um, Iwa—“ Kageyama cringed. “Hey?”

“Hmm?”

“What do you—“ Okay, maybe he hadn’t thought this through and it was going to be weird as hell, but Kageyama swallowed and continued. “What do you think selfless love is?”

As expected (sort of), Iwaizumi choked on his baby carrot **.** “What? Selfless love?” he repeated, before he took a long pause, staring at Kageyama with narrowed eyes. “Why are you suddenly asking?”

“Um, well—my fortune cookie from the other day told me that selfless love will, uh—do me some good soon. So…I wanna know what it means.”

It wasn’t the best incomplete truth he’d ever told, but thankfully, Iwaizumi was either a lot less perceptive than people made him out to be or a _lot_ more, able to tell that Oikawa (actually Kageyama) was out of sorts at the moment and wouldn’t be able to handle questioning. Either way was fine. “Oh,” he simply said, setting his chopsticks down as he stared up at the ceiling and toyed with his bottom lip, deep in thought. “Well I guess…it’s putting someone’s happiness before your own because you care about them? Because you love them? I don’t know.”

“Wait,” Kageyama said, “so it’s something you’re supposed to feel?”

“Uhh, not exactly.” Iwaizumi appeared to be struggling just as much as he was. He brought up a hand in a gesture he lost midway. “Like—it’s more of—you act selflessly _because_ of your feelings. You feel love for someone, so your actions become selfless—or something like that.”

It was better than anything Kageyama could have come up with by himself, and nothing else but that. He was sure he didn’t love Oikawa; he was barely even sure he _liked_ him. If he was unable to feel the love, how was he going to start acting selflessly? It seemed like nothing but a lost cause.

“Oh,” he replied, hoping he didn’t sound disappointed. Iwaizumi himself looked particularly dissatisfied with the answers he’d given, but he at least picked up his chopsticks once more to resume his lunch. Kageyama’s remained on the lunch box on the desk as he blinked up at Oikawa’s best friend of several years. “Have you…ever felt that much love towards anyone?”

Iwaizumi stared at him as he swallowed. “I dunno—family, I guess. Maybe some special friends.”

“Does that include Oikawa-san?”

He snorted. “There’s no way I’d ever feel that towards a guy who refers to himself in third person.”

_Oops._

Kageyama stiffened, tried to keep himself from wincing, unable to believe he’d forgotten that he was Oikawa despite being surrounded by complete strangers wearing Aoba Johsai’s uniform. Still, Iwaizumi didn’t look put off; in fact, he looked more amused than ever, looking down at his food and putting more and more into his mouth with the smallest of smiles settled on his face. Maybe it was a kind of banter they had, Kageyama realized. He honestly wouldn’t put it past Oikawa to refer to himself in third person on regular days, and with an honorific to boot.

He wouldn’t know if he didn’t try. “That’s really shallow,” he commented.

Even more amusement lit up Iwaizumi’s eyes, though his smile remained miniscule. “Well, so are you sometimes, so now we’re even.”

One discreet victorious fist pump from under the desk later, Kageyama was picking his lunch up and once again, eating in content silence.

 

* * *

 

Relative to how Kageyama's day had gone, Oikawa's hadn't been that far off. It went without saying that class and lunch turned out alright—Hinata and Yachi hadn't bothered showing up to hang out and everyone else was out of the question in the first place—but he was especially relieved to note that even practice had managed not to mess with his mood. Everyone was casual, a few of them inquiring about his condition, a lot spewing out typical praise after tosses and the likes, and that was it.

Even the shrimp, someone Oikawa had pinned down to lack discipline and control (and common sense, for that matter), hadn't bugged him about performing that special move again today. He'd called for a toss, Oikawa had sent him a normal one, and he'd struggled to hit that without any complaints and only a, "Nice toss," when he finally got the hang of it.

The birds had brains after all, Oikawa thought as the coach began to wrap up the practice later nearer the evening. If every day would go like this, maybe things wouldn't have to be so difficult.

When he wasn't playing volleyball or pretending to pay attention to a class lecture, he was staring down at his phone, rereading the fortune cookie passage over and over again, as if doing so would suddenly give it a little more sense, maybe even change the words. He already knew what it meant, but somehow he only felt more lost than ever, unable to take the concept of 'selfless love' and project it onto him and Kageyama and anything they might do together in the near future.

People like Iwaizumi tended to label him as selfish and conceited, and though sometimes that could be true, even Oikawa knew what it meant to give to someone without expecting something in return, to sacrifice his own satisfaction for the sake of seeing someone else smile. He knew how to give love to those whom he felt were deserving—but the question was: did Kageyama fall under that category?

As of now, probably not, he thought as he made his way towards Kitagawa Daiichi, phone clasped in his hand jammed inside his pocket. Kageyama was probably one of the last people (in close proximity) that he would ever associate with the word ‘love’ or anything of the sort; in fact, he was more closely associated to the exact opposite. ‘Hate’ was a strong word, and though Oikawa could admit he hated a lot of things about the boy (hated his genius, hated how he seemed to reduce Oikawa to nothing but dust in the wind with a single swipe of his hands), it would be outrageous to claim that he hated Kageyama himself completely.

He didn’t _hate_ him, not really, but not hating him didn’t exactly translate to loving him either. Let alone _selflessly._

So what was to be done?

There was an answer lingering in the back of Oikawa’s brain, waiting to be pulled out for further scrutiny, but right now, his focus was on his actual body, crouched on the sidewalk and right against Kitagawa Daiichi’s back wall, head tucked on its knees. He hadn’t tried to leave practice earlier this time and so it was already rather dark, and the sight of it looked almost pitiful. Oikawa had an eyebrow raised as he approached.

When his mouth had opened to speak it had nearly said something along the lines of, “Did you wait long?” before he realized that it would have sounded far too friendly for anybody’s liking. And so he sighed through his nose and crossed his arms instead, staring down at the current inhabitant of his physical self, oblivious to the fact that he’d arrived. “You’re making me look like a lost child,” was what had cleverly slipped past his lips instead.

Immediately, Kageyama’s head (his head, under Kageyama’s control) shot up, and he was looking up at Oikawa with wide eyes. “Sorry,” he replied, hauling himself up and brushing near-invisible dirt off of his uniform. “I got sleepy.”

There wasn’t really anything he could say to that; he unzipped his bag and pulled out two homework sheets instead. “Here’s your homework for the day. Where’s mine?”

He watched as Kageyama did the same, took the sheets that were handed out to him, and let out a mildly-aggravated sigh as he was forced to fold and tuck them to fit in one of Kageyama’s notebooks. He sent a covetous glance towards his own clear file, now housing Kageyama’s already-folded papers.

“Did you, um,” Kageyama said as he slipped the clear file back into his bag, without bothering to make eye contact, “get any ideas about the whole—selfless love thing?”

Oikawa could only shake his head. “Nothing concrete. You?”

“Well, I asked Iwaizumi-san about it—“

“You _what?”_

“I mean—I didn’t tell him about what was really happening,” Kageyama clarified. “I just told him my fortune said something about selfless love so I wanted to know what he thought it could mean.”

“Oh,” Oikawa said, letting out a breath. “And what did he say?”

“Um, he said.” Kageyama shifted, once again stuffing his hands inside his pockets—something he did rather often, Oikawa realized. “He said that it’s supposed to come from something you feel. Like—you love someone a lot so you end up putting their happiness before your own. When you feel love for them, your actions become selfless. It doesn’t seem like anything you’re supposed to force.”

That didn’t sound too far off from the things he’d thought of during the day; Oikawa supposed he and Iwaizumi truly were on the same wavelength at all times. Kageyama wasn’t done, however. “I thought about it a little,” he continued, “and I couldn’t figure out how exactly it applies. To us. Because—I mean, even Iwaizumi-san said that he only feels that kind of love for family and his best friends. He didn’t even include you.”

“Ouch? Why the hell not?” Oikawa brought a hand to rest flat against his chest without really thinking about, made a face. “I swear, Iwa-chan is so ungrateful sometimes.”

Kageyama’s snort had him snapping back to attention. “I wasn’t really surprised,” he muttered, and _okay, wow_ that had to be the first time he’d ever made fun of Oikawa under not-so-hostile circumstances. If Oikawa hadn’t been affronted earlier, he certainly was now. Kageyama only ignored his probably-comical scowl. “But yeah, basically it’s not something you can do for just anybody, so—“ He made a face. “How do we do it for—us, in particular?”

‘Us, in particular’ wasn’t something they could outright put a label on, definitely. Simply ‘volleyball rivals’ wouldn’t cut it and ‘junior-senior’ was just out of the question. This was going to be far from easy, definitely, near impossible even. But ‘near’ was a really important word here, and things were only truly impossible when you yourself believed they were anyway, when you put that restriction on yourself and allowed defeat to overcome you. ‘Defeat’, however, wasn’t in Oikawa’s vocabulary any longer—not since their final volleyball game at the Spring High.

This was just like volleyball, he told himself right then and there: an endeavour that needed to be worked for, that needed time and thought and strategy. Of course, simply giving it thought didn’t guarantee victory, but it was better than nothing. He blinked up at the sky. “I don’t know for sure,” Oikawa said, “but I think I might have an idea how to start.”

“What is it?”

“Well—“ He swallowed. This was going to be even harder to word out than the things he’d had to say this morning. “ _Us,_ in particular…” He bit lightly at his bottom lip, glancing at his body’s patient face from time to time. “…would you say we’re on good terms?”

Without hesitation or even a brief second thought, Kageyama shook his head.

His forwardness was unsettling sometimes; Oikawa couldn’t help his nervous smile. “Would you say that now would be a good time to start?”

 _Now_ Kageyama hesitated. “I—I guess?” he said. “So what are you saying?”

The answer to that was strikingly clear, but he supposed that the things that were obvious to him were in no ways the same as the things that were obvious to Kageyama. He breathed in, ran a hand through Kageyama’s surprisingly smooth hair and scratched at the skin underneath, and breathed out. “ _I’m saying,_ ” he drawled, “that we’re going to have to start being nicer to each other.”

Kageyama’s face could only be blank for a while, and Oikawa didn’t blame him. The boy _was_ known for having a terrible track record at being nice to people, and those people hadn’t even done him any wrong. Well—not to say that Oikawa had done him any severe wrong, but if Oikawa for himself acknowledged that Kageyama was someone he wouldn’t bother going out of his way to be kind to, then it was safe to say the feeling was mutual.

At long last, his blank face became a frown. “Okay,” he said, the last syllable rising, “how do we do that?”

Oikawa’s speech had never been so challenged. “Well—“ he tried, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “Not shitting on each other would probably be a good start.”

“I don’t shit on you.”

“No arguing, then; how about that?” Oikawa corrected, unable to quell the growing annoyance at Kageyama’s self-assured expression. As if he’d been completely innocent and kind to Oikawa all these years. He took a calming breath. “And then…well, it might not be considered selfless but we should try and do nice things for each other, I guess? Favours and all that?”

“Like what?”

“Depends on what we need.” Oikawa shrugged, watched as Kageyama slowly nodded his understanding, the disorganized tufts of Oikawa’s hair jutting out at different angles and bobbing up and down. He frowned at them. He knew his hair wasn’t exactly what he would call tame but he _definitely_ didn’t look this bad on regular days. He crossed his arms and sent Kageyama a studious glare. “Do you comb my hair in the morning?”

“Yes,” Kageyama said immediately, looking attacked. He stared at the locks falling over Oikawa’s body’s forehead and blew at them. “It’s just—it’s like they don’t care what the comb does at all. They’re up there doing their own thing.”

“Yeah, that’s what the gel is for, Tobio.”

“Gel?”

 _Be nice,_ Oikawa’s voice of reason called out from deep inside his system, and he let the ignorant remark pass, letting Kageyama off with a simple, exaggerated sigh. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. Obviously, I can’t let you keep walking around looking like you just woke up from a nap during class—which you _better not be doing,_ by the way—so tomorrow, I’m gonna come over and teach you how to make yourself presentable.”

“Is your mom gonna let you in?”

“There’s a tree right by my window I can climb. Iwa-chan does it all the time,” Oikawa said, offhandedly, “it can’t be that hard. We can switch homework then too and then we can go our separate ways from there. Got it?”

“Fine.” Kageyama shrugged, already adjusting his bag and beginning to walk away. “As long as it doesn’t make us late.”

Oikawa didn’t think he’d ever looked at his own retreating body’s back with more contempt. “Do your homework this time,” he called out. “I’m not used to acting so irresponsibly around teachers.”

There was a nonchalant hum of agreement.

Rolling his eyes, Oikawa turned to start the walk home as well. Feeling a love so strong it made him capable of acting selflessly for someone like _that_ got closer and closer to being branded ‘undoable’ the more time they spent together. He was brash and unfeeling, didn’t even seem to care about anything—even himself. How he was going to be doing such an irritating person favours from today forward was beyond him, and whether or not Kageyama would be able to return these good deeds well enough for their souls to declare ‘mission: accomplished’ was an even harder question to address. He didn’t know how much more of living Kageyama’s monotonous days for him he'd be able to take. He didn’t even want to think about how long he’d have to.

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t that hard to be Kageyama Tobio for a day—or several days, in their case. Volleyball aside, all he ever did was sit alone in complete silence and ignore everyone, eat food and drink milk like he would die without it, and move from place to place without so much as an acquaintance moving by his side. It was so routine, so dry that it was almost disgusting, and it wasn’t hard to get the hang of it but it was getting increasingly harder to endure, staying so far away from other people’s smiles and company. He wondered if Kageyama was truly content with the way his days dragged on.

Well, that was probably something he could do: try and make some friends. Some of his classmates looked at him like he was the plague and the first years on the volleyball team were either ditzy or disagreeable or both, but they’d be better than what he had now. It was more for himself than for Kageyama in actuality, but he supposed that would be a good side effect. He still had to try and be nice to Kageyama, no matter what he was like or how much Oikawa _didn’t_ like him.

But then his phone was vibrating and he was lighting up the screen, only to be greeted by the brief message:

> **Unknown [7:42 PM]  
>  ** Which way was your house again?

—and he was sighing out for the enth time that day, typing out detailed instructions in the middle of the sidewalk, finding the prospect of doing favours for such a scatter-brained mess of a boy completely, utterly unattractive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now, a quote from the extraordinary historical musical, Hamilton  
> “it is crazy that oikawa and kageyama don’t love each other”  
> “well you know what? we can change that. you know why?”  
> “why?”  
> “because i’m the author”  
> \--James Madison and Thomas Jefferson, The Election of 1800
> 
> what do you mean that’s not what they said
> 
>  
> 
> [catch me procrastinating on tungle and places](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kakkoweeb/profile)


	5. i saw a bridge becoming shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t expect everything to be okay forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t be fooled by the summary; that’s not me challenging you to an angst fest or anything lol it’s just me quoting ennoshita from the training camps. yes i am a completely serious writer. no i don’t know why i decided to quote ennoshita as a summary.

Being in Oikawa’s body was a health hazard.

Kageyama realized that the hard way, the following morning, sound asleep but then getting very thoroughly shaken awake by the sound of scratching nails echoing throughout the room, sending a shot right in his heart and simulating what he supposed could qualify as a miniature stroke. He spent a good few moments propped up on his elbows on the futon, breathing hard, brain struggling to boot up faster than usual to try and find the source of the god-awful noise and, hopefully, put a stop to it.

When he found the source to be none other than Oikawa’s phone a while later, he shut the thing off without a second thought and slumped back onto the floor. And then, remembering that they were supposed to be nice to each other now, he turned the thing back on, changed the alarm to a generic beeping sequence for the sake of his heart condition for the next days to come, allowed himself a few moments of recovery before bringing himself to his feet and getting ready for the day ahead.

He had several complaints about their whole situation, but if there was one thing he was glad for when it came to living Oikawa’s life in his stead, it was the mornings. His room’s windows bore no curtains but didn’t let an annoyingly-excessive amount of sunlight to pass through and burn his eyes, and the smell of food floated up from the kitchen and through the tiny gaps of his bedroom door without fail each time, instilling in him a foreign sense of security: that Oikawa’s mother was downstairs, ready to invite him to the table for breakfast and hand him a specially-made box for lunch. The shower wasn’t bad either—the heater, compared to the one at Kageyama’s, was far simpler to use, and on a small shelf hanging high on the wall stood an assorted collection of hygiene and beauty products, each level a separator for what was Oikawa’s and what were his parents’, perhaps.

Two days in and he still couldn’t differentiate between Oikawa’s shelf and his mother’s. It was no wonder his hair was so glamorous and his skin seemed flawless.

Seemed, definitely. As he dried himself off with a towel by the sink, he couldn’t help but stare at that skin through the mirror—definitely paler than his, but not at all exempt to the marks and bruises he’d earned from rigorous training and outrageous, spur-of-the-moment jumps and falls on the court. His palm and fingers felt hard and rough, his nails a little bit longer than what Kageyama thought was acceptable but still decently-cut, and his hair, of course, was a wonder of nature.

His face was a different story. The skin of his cheeks was smooth to the touch, too smooth for such calloused hands, and it occurred to Kageyama right then that this was what he and everybody else always saw the most, the only part of Oikawa that was always fully on display. That face had gotten him a number of admirers and a whole lot of attention, no doubt, and though Kageyama normally thought those people shallow, he found himself falling completely still, trailing his gaze from Oikawa’s long lashes; his rich, chocolate brown eyes; his well-shaped nose; his thin, pink lips—all coming together to form the face that was staring back at him through the glass, looking studious, curious—and then he was warming up.

Oikawa was pretty. He’d never actually noticed before.

But no—standing in the bathroom all alone and analysing Oikawa’s facial features was completely counter-productive and—quite frankly—kind of creepy, and so he turned away from the mirror and recklessly rubbed his towel against his hair, hoping maybe a few ounces of sense and dignity would be shaken into his head as he did so.

The walk from the bathroom to his bedroom was a fair length, just enough time for him to focus his attention on the matter at hand, the reason why he was at Oikawa’s in the first place, the reason why staring at Oikawa’s body in the mirror was the last thing he needed to be doing, but all he could really do about it right now was let his mind wander all the way back to his own home, to where Oikawa was, living Kageyama’s life in turn. A game of spot-the-difference played using their day-to-day would be far too easy for even the most average child, definitely, and Kageyama thought it was only natural for him to wonder—to wonder how Oikawa’s mornings treated him, to wonder which parts of the fridge he’d already managed to touch to make his own breakfast the last two days, to wonder what he was doing right at this moment.

That wondering came to an end as he was met by the sight of his own body, tapping at the window at the end of the hall.

“What the—“ he began, and in a heartbeat he was rushing to the window, unlatching and hauling it open, and then stepping back in order to give his body enough room to scramble inside the house and land safely and—more importantly—quietly on two feet and not anything else. Two days in and it was truly still strange, seeing a person he normally only saw through the mirror stumble before him, feeling that person’s hands gripping tightly on his shoulders in an effort to not fall to his death, supporting that person for the very same objective. He’d barely recovered from the sheer oddity of the sensations when his body was gripping his wrist with a fearsome force and dragging him into the bedroom.

The minute the door slammed shut, Oikawa wheezed. “That’s a lot harder than Iwa-chan makes it look,” he mumbled to no one in particular. “Normally, you can hear the knocking from my bedroom so I thought that wouldn’t be a problem, but of _course_ you just happened to be at the bathroom when I arrived. Perfect. Just great.”

“Uh,” Kageyama could only say, “are you okay?”

“Peachy,” Oikawa deadpanned, staring at his own body before him, lower half simply wrapped in a towel. “You were walking around the house half-naked? Aren’t you cold?”

“Not really.”

“You better not get me sick,” Oikawa warned, heading for his dresser and opening a drawer, expertly grabbing a select few items from within. From what Kageyama could see, the items consisted of one of those round brushes, a regular comb, and a bottle of some sort—and it occurred to him, at last, that Oikawa had said he was going to teach him to do his hair today. Oikawa jerked in his head in the direction of his uniform, hanging neatly on the wall. “Go get changed so we can do this before anyone comes and gets you.”

Swallowing, Kageyama complied, wondering how angry Oikawa would get if he asked for instructions for putting on his tie after getting his hair done.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi Hajime wasn’t the smartest kid in school, but he certainly wasn’t an idiot. It had been two days since Oikawa had allegedly woken up screaming before rushing out of the house, and an entire two days had passed of him being exceptionally quiet, uncharacteristically jittery, and just downright elusive. The routine of walking to and from school that they’d kept up for half a decade had been disrupted without warning and hadn’t been repaired just yet, and how could it? Oikawa never talked about it, didn’t bother telling Iwaizumi beforehand that he was going to leave ten minutes ahead of their usual time, didn’t bother explaining it after.

It would be a fresh change if it weren’t so unnerving, how much Oikawa was keeping to himself all of a sudden. He was a drama king and he’d pulled one or two stunts similar to this before, usually for some ridiculous reason he took to heart a little too much and told himself that nobody else would be able to understand (and he was only half wrong), but he wasn’t just throwing a cold shoulder or an adult version of a temper tantrum this time around—that much Iwaizumi knew. He was sincerely, genuinely acting different, hints of his usual self only surfacing every now and again before disappearing completely.

And Iwaizumi had to get to the bottom of it.

He definitely wasn’t a genius (one of the reasons, probably, that Oikawa stuck with him for so long), but he prided himself for being resourceful when the situation called for it. And so today, unlike the last few days in which Oikawa had successfully left home right under his nose, he’d gotten up earlier than usual, got dressed and ate faster than usual, and was now headed for the Oikawa residence a few doors down fifteen minutes before their usual time. Don’t get him wrong; he wasn’t planning on cornering Oikawa at all, especially not with how fragile he seemed to be lately, but a brief explanation at the very least would be nice. A warning maybe, or a direct statement of, ‘I can’t walk with you again today; I’m sorry I never tell you in advance’.

He’d been doing this for years already, infiltrating this particular residence—always him, yes, because Oikawa typically took longer to get ready than he did what with all that crap he put into his hair to make it as voluminous as it usually was—and so all he really had to do to gain access to the otherwise private home was knock and, without prompting, let himself inside and announce his presence to Oikawa’s mother, usually in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Oikawa-san!” he called out.

“Good morning, Hajime,” she called back. “You actually caught him today; he hasn’t left yet. He’s probably done getting dressed by now, though. He left the shower ages ago.”

“Alright, thank you. I’ll be heading up, if you don’t mind.” The statement was more routine than a necessity at this point; if she didn’t mind sending Iwaizumi up when Oikawa _hadn’t_ showered yet, she wouldn’t mind it now that he had.

That was another thing about Oikawa that was different, he realized as he made his way up the stairs. Appearances were everything to the guy and though he wouldn’t admit it, he spent a lot of time perfecting the projection of himself he wanted everyone to see and appreciate every day. These last few days, however, he looked shabbier than usual, more rumpled up, like he’d struggled to put his uniform on straight and forgot to fix it. And his hair— _that_ had to be the biggest change of all. It looked like an organized bedhead even _with_ all the grooming he did before leaving home but lately it seemed like a legitimate, accidental bedhead, nothing more, nothing less, a sight Iwaizumi was only privy to during sleepovers and training camps before Oikawa got the chance to do anything about it.

The thought of him _not_ doing his hair in the morning before leaving for school was even more disturbing than the fact that he was talking less. That was definitely something Iwaizumi was going to have to confirm. So without further delay, he twisted the knob to Oikawa’s bedroom door, pushed it open, and—

—before him was Oikawa falling to the floor off of a stool, yelping, and Kageyama standing awkwardly with his hands stretched out in front of his body, one of them clutching tightly at Oikawa’s brush.

_What the fuck._

“Iwa-ch—Iwaizumi-san!” Kageyama cried, his voice laced with a panic that Iwaizumi was too disgruntled himself to recognize. He was already in his complete uniform, what was probably his school bag settled on the ground by his feet. “Wh—what are you doing here?”

“I—“ Iwaizumi’s mouth was near useless, all of his brain power gathering to work with his eyes, to process the images of Oikawa’s and Kageyama’s equally severe stares and just the fact that Kageyama was here in Oikawa’s room holding his brush and _was that Oikawa’s fucking gel in Kageyama’s other hand, what is going on—_ “I always…drop by—Kageyama, are you—are you _doing_ Oikawa’s _hair?”_

He looked like death—stiff, skin pale—as he let his mouth hang open, his fingers around the brush loosening and letting the thing fall to the floor with a _thud._ “No!” he cried. “No, I’m not, I just—“ He swallowed, seemed to be breathing hard, but Iwaizumi’s fingertips were far too cold, muscles too locked up, for him to notice any of it. “I’m here because I—I wanted to ask Oikawa-san for hair advice! His hair’s really, really nice, right, and mine’s awful so, I thought, you know.”

Oikawa on the floor looked positively violated. “At least it doesn’t need ten combs and sixty tons of jelly to actually look decent, unlike _my_ weird bedhair—hair—“

“Don’t exaggerate for my sake, _Oikawa-san_ , at least _your_ hair has personality!”

“No, _Tobio-chan,_ I mean it. And at least _your_ hair actually _looks_ like hair.”

“Ex— _cuse_ me?”

“I’M _—“_ Iwaizumi loudly yelled, eyes strained from how badly they seemed to want to fall out of their sockets. Oikawa and Kageyama seemed to catch themselves, stared up at him like two deer in the middle of a hunt. He blinked at them, couldn’t be bothered to try and analyse just what the fuck was going on—why they were complimenting each other’s hair and degrading their own—and jerked his thumb back out into the hall, entire arm stiff as a board. “Gonna. Wait in the living room.”

Explanations and rationality be damned, Iwaizumi shut the door and fled back downstairs to where things made sense.

 

* * *

 

“Oh my god, _what_ is Iwa-chan doing here so early?” Oikawa cried, after a good, on-the-dot thirty seconds had passed—a leeway for the ever-observant Iwaizumi and his badly-timed arrivals to make it all the way to the living room. Normally he’d exercise a bit more caution regarding whether Iwaizumi truly _was_ going to be out of earshot for the next fifteen minutes or secretly listening by the door, but given the state he was in (which was very, very shaken) he wasn’t willing to risk anything but ready to risk everything at the same time, if there was a universe in which that even made sense. He sent a glare in his body’s direction, still feebly seated on the floor after he’d so impulsively pushed it off a stool.

“Like I know,” Kageyama said, finally getting to his feet, rubbing a single elbow Oikawa figured he’d used to brace himself as he fell. He hoped it wouldn’t bruise. “Why did you push me off the chair?”

“I panicked, okay, this isn’t normally the time for Iwa-chan to barge into my room. He’s early,” Oikawa said, shaking his head and picking up the possessions he’d dropped on the floor in the hope of minimizing suspicion—not that it worked. He sighed, checked the clock sitting on his desk. “Really early.” He paused, barely registered Kageyama sitting himself back on the stool, ready for Oikawa to continue spoiling him. “ _Too_ early. Like he did it on purpose.”

He settled his brush on top of his own head, let it stay there. “Tobio-chan,” he called, voice low, “you haven’t been walking with Iwa-chan in the morning, have you?”

“No.”

“Did you at least tell him you wouldn’t be?”

The silence in the air was deafening as it was incredibly infuriating. “No?”

As Oikawa groaned—almost growled—in frustration, Kageyama below him whirled around from his spot in the chair, looking at up him with wide eyes. “I didn’t know you two walked together every morning! It’s not like you told me and he never brought it up either. How was I supposed to know there was anything to tell at all?”

There was a comeback in the form of a litany of insulting words settled nicely at the back of Oikawa’s tongue, but he chose to bite it back, to sigh out instead of further arguing with the defensive Kageyama, whose voice rose not unlike the manner with which a child’s did when his parents were accusing him of breaking the plate or failing his tests or whatever else. He refused to parent this particular overgrown baby, Oikawa told himself, turning his body’s head in the right direction and resuming his brushing.

“Apologize to him,” he said, “and tell him you might not be walking with him in the morning for a while so he can go on ahead.”

“Fine,” Kageyama said, “but what if he asks why?”

“Just—tell him you have important engagements and wink at him or something. That’ll probably piss him off enough not to ask anything else,” Oikawa replied, setting the brush aside and coating his fingers with a moderate amount of gel instead. “You _do_ know how to wink, right?”

“Uh.”

Oikawa wondered where he found the optimism to expect anything else. He made a face, carefully rubbed gel on his hair with two fingers, a few tufts at a time.

“Why did Iwaizumi-san just suddenly barge into your room without knocking anyway?” Kageyama asked. “How comes he’s allowed to come and go as he pleases?”

The answer to those questions was strikingly clear to anyone with eyes: Oikawa and Iwaizumi had been inseparable longer than Kageyama had been playing volleyball, probably, their first meeting dating all the way back roughly ten years ago, back in elementary. In between attending the same school nearly all their lives and living in the same neighbourhood, just three houses away, Oikawa wasn’t sure which served as a greater adhesive to his and Iwaizumi’s ever-growing relationship; wasn’t sure whether Kageyama was making these inquiries for conversation’s sake or because he truly didn’t understand the nature of beautiful, long-time friendship.

Then again, how could he?

“Iwa-chan and I have been best friends for years,” Oikawa said, not letting his speaking get in the way of his handiwork. He examined the current state of his body’s hair in the mirror straight ahead, narrowed his eyes at a certain section that needed further attention. “We’ve reached the level of closeness where him being around is just as natural as anyone else in the house being around. You wouldn’t know about that, though; you don’t have any friends.”

He was dabbing a bit more gel onto his fingers when Kageyama shifted slightly. “Yeah, I guess I don’t.”

Oikawa stopped.

Hesitantly, he brought his eyes back to the mirror, his body’s face on full display—only this time, painted by Kageyama’s emotions and not his own. The boy always seemed to have a talent for keeping his expressions as inexpressive as possible, his eyebrows and eyelids low, his lips completely straight. His eyes, however, told the main bulk of the story. It was a bit more obvious now that he wasn’t in his own body; Oikawa had seen his own downcast face far too many times—whenever he lost, whenever he felt like he wasn’t good enough—staring back at him through the mirror enough for him to recognize it whether it matched with his emotions or not.

And right now, it was the face Kageyama was making.

Shit.

It was just a slight frown, nothing Oikawa hadn’t dealt with before, but he felt heavy all the same, physically felt the gloom emanating from Kageyama’s person along with the struggle to hold onto his strength, to make Oikawa’s jabs out like they weren’t a big deal when he didn’t believe it for himself, and Oikawa felt like he was being eaten alive. By what, he preferred not to think about. He told himself it was a natural reaction to seeing his face look lonely, that he would end up burdened and down, because associations were easy to make and the human psychology was incredibly gullible, tried to leave it at that.

Something told him he couldn’t, that he shouldn’t, but he only gelled his hair further.

When he finally finished, his set his paraphernalia down on the nearest surface and stared the product of his efforts through the glass. “There,” he said with finality. “That looks way better, doesn’t it?”

Kageyama cocked his head to the side, made a meticulous, critical face at his own reflection, and Oikawa could only roll his eyes. “Okay, well, if you have the capacity to be rude even without saying anything, then I guess you’re fine.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, never mind.” He stowed his brushes and grooming products back in their rightful drawer and grabbed a sheet of tissue from his box on the desk to cleanse his hands. It hadn’t occurred to him earlier how far he’d been from his own room lately, how he missed it in all its familiar, routine glory. “You need to go downstairs and make sure Iwa-chan isn’t having a stroke, and I need to get out of here before anyone sees me.”

“Which do we do first?” Kageyama asked, rising and lifting the stool, placing it in the corner. “You’re gonna have to use the window again, right? If we leave too early, Iwaizumi-san might end up seeing you anyway.”

That was true, and Oikawa would have said so had the name ‘Iwaizumi-san’ not suddenly rang in his ears, the sound of it incredibly awkward when created by his voice. He lifted a single eyebrow, stared at Kageyama, eager to get the conversation to anywhere other than where it already was. It was always easier with Kageyama when they were talking light, disagreeing, poking fun. “Tobio, you don’t call Iwa-chan that, do you?”

“What?”

“Iwa-chan. What do you call him?”

He felt his skin turning cold as he watched Kageyama nervously shift, shrink into himself, heard him swallow almost audibly. “I—I’ve been trying not to call him by name,” he admitted.

Well, that was a better answer than Oikawa expected, but: “Why?”

Kageyama only shrunk further, seemed to grit his teeth. “Because I can’t say—“ He paused. “Iwa-ch—“ He pursed his lips, glared up at Oikawa, daring him to start teasing.

And oh, how badly Oikawa wanted to rise to that challenge. “You can’t say _Iwa-chan?”_ he verbalized—half incredulous, half amused, completely relieved that the earlier silence and downtrodden atmosphere had been successfully chased out of the room. “You can’t call him Iwa-chan so you’ve been trying not to call him at all? What’s so bad about Iwa-chan?”

“It’s weird!” Kageyama hissed. “I respect Iwaizumi-san; I can’t call him anything like that.”

“Are you implying that I have no respect for my best friend in the entire world?”

He made a noncommittal noise.

Oikawa sighed; Iwaizumi and Kageyama had never been close, per se, but whereas Oikawa had always been the overbearing, name-calling upperclassman to the bright-eyed twelve-year old, Iwaizumi was probably something like salvation, a breath of fresh air from all the condescending cries of, “Idiot!” and the sticking out of tongues. Of course Kageyama would hold him in high regard. “Look, I get that Iwa-chan was your junior high hero or whatever—well, next to me, of course.” Kageyama frowned, but Oikawa only further lit up. “But you’re gonna have to call him _something_ and that something can’t be anything other than what I call him, or else he’s going to know something’s up. So try and say it: Iwa-chan.”

Silence. Kageyama kept his lips sealed tight, a single eye twitched up.

“Come on, Tobio, we don’t have all day,” Oikawa prompted, crossing his arms. “Fine. Repeat after me. Iwa—?”

“…Iwa…”

“—chan.”

“…chan.”

“Iwa-chan.”

“…Iwa-chan.”

His face looked nothing short of pained, but he’d gotten there at the very least. Oikawa slung his bag on his shoulder. “See? Was that so hard?” he asked, but it had been rhetorical more than anything and without waiting for any sort of reaction, he was inching closer to the door, pulling it slightly ajar, just enough for him to see whether there was anybody waiting to ambush him out in the hallway. When the coast was evidently clear, he threw a brief glance in Kageyama’s direction, said, “We’re still meeting at Kitaichi later. Sort things out with Iwa-chan,” before tip-toeing his way back to the hall window and squeezing himself through it.

It felt like he was running away somehow, but not from Iwaizumi’s and his family’s prying eyes. He didn’t like it.

 

* * *

 

After Oikawa inside his body had left, Kageyama had spent a good few minutes trying to figure out exactly how to deal with the aftermath of the shock they’d bestowed upon Iwaizumi—one that was enough to have him backpedalling from whence he came and running back down to the living room, apparently. He couldn’t come up with a valid explanation even if his life depended on it, however, and so he’d headed downstairs, praying that he had a little bit of acting prowess in his skill set, and proceeded to pretend like he’d been alone in his room for the longest time and that Iwaizumi had never even gone up.

“What the fuck are you talking about? I was there! Kageyama was too,” Iwaizumi had cried, a tad hysterically, and seeing someone else more frazzled than he should have been gave Kageyama a certain kind of confidence that came from who knew where, but one that he was grateful for.

“Why would Tobio-chan be in my room?” Kageyama asked, trying not to cringe at that cutesy nickname, trying harder not to cringe at the next one. “Iwa-chan, you might be delusional.”

Iwaizumi looked like he was starting to believe that too.

They’d walked together that morning, for the first time since this entire ordeal began, the majority of the time being dedicated to talking about _anything_ other than what had transpired this morning or the possibilities of Iwaizumi going insane. And when they’d gotten to Seijoh in one piece, Kageyama had heeded Oikawa’s instructions, told Iwaizumi that he had engagements every morning that would prevent him from being eligible company for walks to school, tried his hand (or his eye) at a wink, and told himself that Iwaizumi’s disgusted scowl was because Oikawa was a cheeky prick and not because he was about as smooth as a wall of gravel.

Getting his hair that wasn’t his hair fixed by someone inhabiting his body and then getting pushed off a chair had to be the highlight of the week, among everything else that had happened. It had been infinitely wild and pathetic but it was better than the silences, the times he and Oikawa had unnecessarily dug into each other’s skin with the intent to emotionally maim, times Kageyama was left with far too much room to think about Oikawa and his life and his feelings. It was one of two conversational presets the two of them shared, it seemed; all of their interactions from junior high until today had always just fluctuated from petty, loud, and annoying to awkward, quiet, and heavy-hearted.

At this point, it didn’t even seem like there was any other kind to be had. It was just simply too difficult to change when it was Oikawa he was supposed to be changing for. And Oikawa was the setter that adapted to the needs of many, but Kageyama knew that that ‘many’ didn’t and had never involved him either. It just made the situation even graver.

“Oikawa-kun?”

Kageyama, unaware that he’d even been slouching in his seat, abruptly sat up. Lunch had just started a few minutes ago, he remembered, and he hadn’t even realized that he’d slipped into the land of deep thoughts and daydreams the moment the teacher had set them all free. She hadn’t left yet, though; as he blinked up at his surroundings, blinked the awareness back into his mind, he saw her sitting at her desk in the front of the room and met her gaze. It looked concerned, a little bit severe.

There’d been a short quiz for this particular class yesterday. One that had been announced, apparently, probably back when Kageyama was still in Karasuno where he belonged and things hadn’t fallen from grace just yet. As expected, he and his first year brain had been caught completely unprepared and wound up selecting random answers for the entirety of the test. And unless being in Oikawa’s body somehow improved his guess work, the teacher was probably calling him up to tell him he’d performed terribly, that she was disappointed in him, that he needed to better—et cetera, et cetera.

Nothing Kageyama hadn’t heard before. He got up and approached her table.

As expected, the minute he was close enough to hear her voice, just barely above a whisper, she was taking out a single sheet of paper from a folder and handing it to him. “I wasn’t going to give out the results till tomorrow, but I thought you might like to see this,” she told him, and no, being in Oikawa’s body did _not_ do anything for his guessing abilities at all. He took the paper. “I know this was just a review but you performed the worst out of everyone in the entire _year_. Are you okay? Did something happen? Are you having trouble with the material?”

Truthfully that would be a no (he wasn’t okay), a yes (shit happened), and a not applicable (he couldn’t have trouble with material that wasn’t his to digest), but saying any of that would only get him a trip to the counsellor’s office, most likely, and so he held his tongue, cleared it free of any honest responses and filled it, instead, with generic ones. “I’m okay,” he said. “It was just…a bad day, I guess. I promise I’ll do better next time.”

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, I’m good.”

She looked slightly unnerved at his light-heartedness, but she closed her folder and let out a content breath anyway. “If you’re sure,” she said. “Just remember you can come to me or your other teachers if there’s something you need. I don’t want one of my star pupils underperforming this close to the entrance exams.”

“Yes—“ Kageyama was able to say, before the entirety of his being—his thoughts, Oikawa’s body—was freezing over.

_Entrance exams._

Suddenly hyper aware of the smallest of sensations (the feel of the classroom floor against his shoes, the sleeves of his uniform clinging to his skin) but numb to the rest of the world around him (the teacher packing up, his classmates flocking by the doors and windows), Kageyama took a deep breath, tried to get himself together enough to assess just what exactly he’d gotten himself into. He wasn’t new to underperforming; he knew what it was like to be called up by a teacher and told to do better, knew what it was like to have something important to him riding on the figures in red pen his quizzes merited. His grades had hindered him from dedicating as much as he could to volleyball once before, and that hadn’t been pleasant but he’d found a workaround and gotten through it.

But this was different.

Right now, he wasn’t a first year in Karasuno high school, falling asleep in class and giving no shits about what he did and didn’t know about the English language because he felt it didn’t matter. Right now, he was a third year in Aoba Johsai high school, currently steering the body of one Oikawa Tooru: an achiever, someone who didn’t just survive school but thrived in it, a ‘star pupil’ of probably more than just one teacher, someone who was a few months away from graduating and even less months away from preparing for that, give or take weeks away from taking some of the most important exams of his eighteen-year old life. Someone who wasn’t in control of his own body. Someone whose future now rested in the hands of Kageyama Tobio, who didn’t know a thing.

He’d thought that it was bad before, that he was going to ruin Oikawa’s life enough just by messing up his day-to-day interactions and being unable to smile even when situations called for it. But now, finally, the true weight of the burden was sinking in, digging into his shoulders and his arms and his legs and pushing him down in a way that nothing had before, a single, overwhelming, blood-curdling scenario flashing inside his mind. He’d sit in Oikawa’s classes and absorb nothing, he’d take the classes’ exams and be able to answer nothing, and—if the problem continued to persist—he’d take those entrance exams in a few months’ time and, inevitably, land Oikawa with nothing.

Oikawa was going to be branded a complete failure, a boy with wounded prospects, if Kageyama did nothing. And if there were ever a time in which he could confidently say that he was scared out of his mind (heart beating too wildly, skin cold and crawling, lips parted in an effort to catch whatever air it still could), it would most certainly, definitely be now.

What the _hell_ was he going to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote the first segment within two days, took a few-day break, wrote the second segment in half an hour, and then deflated like a balloon. and then i took another few-day break, got a nice comment, and started and finished the third segment instead of eating lunch. inspiration is fleeting and motivation is elusive. discipline is something i don’t have
> 
> also i’m just gonna use this opportunity to say that, although in my head (and sometimes in my writing) i tend to talk shit about oikawa a lot, i do genuinely love him—his character, his development, all his quirks and personal issues. i love him. the potential he leaves for everyone to explore is amazing, and couple that with kageyama’s—DINGDINGDING the reason this fic exists. i love them both, apart and together. that’s all. go do something productive now.
> 
>  
> 
> [or!! you can scream at me about oikawa and oikage](http://kakkoweeb.tumblr.com/)


	6. seeing off loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And what better way to combat loneliness than by making friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before anything else, i apologize for the extremely delayed update. a lot of things piled up on top of each other on account of i still have school to deal with and then there was [oikage week](http://archiveofourown.org/series/725826) which i exerted a lot of effort into and then there’s the general shit that is life and basically i feel bad and feel bad that this took so long (it might not come across in the note but this is a real, genuine guilt, stupid it as it may sound). freaky friday playing this morning on tv did not help one bit.
> 
> but anyways, i’m back, and really tempted to start an online writing journal just because it looks fun.

Oikawa had never pegged Kageyama down as the type to fidget. Hell, he didn't think he’d ever seen the guy afraid, not even when things between them had gotten too hostile for recollection, but clearly that was what he’d been when they’d met up behind their old middle school that afternoon. He was already standing next to the wall when Oikawa, fresh from afternoon practice (one in which he’d gotten hit in the head far too many times), arrived, looking around incessantly like he half-expected to get ambushed at any moment. And once his (overtly wide) eyes had found Oikawa, they never left him.

It was disorienting, seeing his own body in such a nervous state, but trying to deduce the underlying reason was even worse.

Still, Oikawa knew better than to make a big deal out of it; cornering someone who already seemed cornered without external provocation would be as fruitless as it was cruel. He supposed it could also treat it as one good deed to be done for Kageyama and their switching back, one step closer to a better attitude and getting along. “Uh,” he said instead, once he was close enough. “Doing okay?”

“Uh,” Kageyama had responded in turn; _boy,_ were they eloquent. “Not really.”

He truly wasn’t one to mince words, and though Oikawa appreciated the honesty, he was infinitely worried all the same. Only so many things could go wrong when you were living someone else’s life for them and so, considering that this morning had been nothing short of a fiasco for the both of them, Kageyama’s current apprehensive nature certainly didn’t spell anything good. But despite that, Oikawa took a calming breath and took it to heart. 

“Look,” he began, “whatever you messed up, I’m sure it’s repairable. So just tell me what it is and we can work at it.”

It was intended to be comforting, but Kageyama's shifting made it clear that the execution hadn't been very effective. He tilted his head toward the ground but looked up at Oikawa from under his eyelashes. His hands were inside his pockets again. “It’s—not so much something that I messed up,” he muttered, “than it is something I’m going to be regularly messing up for as long as I’m in your body.”

Oikawa had stiffened a great deal. “What do you mean?”

And then Kageyama explained. Still with that wary face and flighty demeanour, he begrudgingly admitted that he’d miserably failed a short quiz and had gotten called up by the teacher about it (that wasn’t so bad; it was just one quiz, Oikawa had thought, nodding understandingly, prepared to offer comfort.) And then, after a brief pause and a bite at his lower lip, he’d narrated how he’d come to the realization that he and Oikawa were two years apart, in age and in knowledge, and that he was about to get thrown midway into a lecture two years ahead of his time and with no context (oh, Oikawa had thought; that was a little bit worse. His mind began to race, brief images of bleeding test papers and gigantic zeroes flashing in his mind). And _then,_ before Oikawa could even properly react to the bomb that had just been dropped, he’d said, “And…your entrance exams.”

(… _fuck._ )

They had both fallen silent after that, Kageyama perhaps giving Oikawa time to process the information and formulate a response and Oikawa making good use of that time, good use indeed. His chest felt tight, palms cold and sweaty, and who could blame him? What even was the rational reaction to hearing that your past, present, and future would be ruined all because a sixteen-year old was in your body instead of you? He supposed that there was none, because there was nothing rational about the situation, nothing good coming out of it either, and then supposed that the _only_ things he could do were fall into a panic, enter a rage, or both at the same time and with no filter.

He didn’t want to explode. He didn’t want to scream, didn’t want to have any more fights with someone who was about as much a victim of the circumstance as he was. But no matter how heavily and steadily he’d breathed, no matter how hard he’d brushed his hand against forehead and the rest of his face, restraining never got any easier. He didn’t look at Kageyama; he kept his eyes closed, relaxed, kept a hand over his mouth as he inhaled peace of mind and exhaled everything else he wanted to feel, inhaled patience, exhaled anger, inhaled…exhaled…

And then as he brought his hand down, he clicked his tongue—hard, _loud—_ eyes opening just in time to see Kageyama’s small, startled jump.

He hadn't exploded, that much he could boast, but he was anything but happy as he shook his head, cursed at the universe for being so cruel to a person with only goodness in his heart (sort of), and stared Kageyama down, wondering what there was to do for such an awful, troublesome new plight that he just _had_ to share with someone with the lowest emotional quotient he'd ever witnessed.

Now here they were, holed up in Kageyama’s room, on the floor along with Oikawa’s notes scattered on the ground for easy perusal. He himself didn’t have any clue what the lesson topics for the next couple of days (weeks, months, but he tried not to think about that) would be, but he could at least still remember the things he’d been taught from April up until a few days ago, and if Kageyama was going to understand anything that was going to be thrown at him, he was going to have to remember all of them too. It was going to be a stretch; Oikawa didn’t think Kageyama was very bright—well, he could be with volleyball, but that was different—or did very well in school even when it was material for his own age he was being given, but he didn’t know what else they could do. Kageyama didn’t either, and he seemed willing enough to pore over Oikawa’s lessons and actually learn something, so Oikawa supposed that was that.

He looked diligent as he listened to Oikawa, scanning his notes and then explaining everything as best he could in terms that were light on the brain, and though Kageyama definitely wouldn’t be able to pick everything up from the get go, he seemed to comprehend the bare basics at least, nodding and muttering to himself when something that Oikawa said made sense. It was a relief, to say the least, that somehow, someway, they were able to cooperate even in the most miniscule of ways. Perhaps Oikawa’s prospects weren’t completely lost after all.

Oikawa threw his head back to rest on Kageyama’s bed as the latter bent over one of Oikawa’s worksheets earlier in the year. The night sky was deep blue and littered with stars already, and more than feeling surprised that his mother wasn’t bombarding his phone with texts yet, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander somewhere he didn’t even know where to find, the place where Kageyama’s own mother probably was at the moment. It wasn’t too late just yet, but Oikawa had already spent a good few days under this roof and, though he felt her presence around the house, through the arrangement of shoes by the entryway and the sudden appearance of new food items in the cupboards and fridge, all of them had flown by without so much as a conversation with the woman and that was a little bit concerning, if he were to be completely honest with himself.

Briefly, he glanced at Kageyama, eyes still narrowed at the papers underneath the tip of his pen. Oikawa wondered if he ever had nights like this, just sitting on the floor or his bed, looking up at the moon, hoping that his mother was out there doing the exact same thing.

“Say, Tobio,” he asked as Kageyama frowned at an unnecessary mark of ink he’d left on his answer sheet. Kageyama looked up, seemed to realize that his posture was in a horrible state and adjusted accordingly. “Where’s your mom?”

“At work,” he answered simply, once again turning his attention to the sheet. “Or headed home, maybe.”

“Does she get home this late all the time?”

“Yeah.”

“So…you don’t see her at all?”

“I do, but mostly on weekends. She’s here all day on weekends. Sometimes she still works, though.”

So she was one of those hard worker types, Oikawa mused, before taking a deep breath and staring at the floor, tapping at his knee in the hope that it might chase away the awkwardness of his next inquiry. “What about your dad?”

Kageyama’s face didn’t change in the slightest. “He left. When I was in junior high.”

There it was. Oikawa had kind of figured from his sudden disappearance in family photos and then the sudden disappearance of family photos as a whole, but even hearing it coming from Kageyama’s mouth was underwhelming somehow, from the lack of a reaction, most probably. Most people probably would have worn a different expression, maybe, gotten uncomfortable, or at the very least pause before revealing personal information to someone who didn’t really have a place to be asking for it. But as usual, Kageyama was nothing short of a rock.

Oikawa sighed and shifted in his seat on the floor. “Are you done?”

This time, Kageyama looked up at him, scandalized (oh, sure, _now_ he had a reaction). “No? I couldn’t really concentrate while you asked me questions about my family.”

That was fair, Oikawa thought to himself, moving to check his wristwatch and then the clock on Kageyama’s wall upon realizing he wasn’t wearing one. “Fine, fine, we’ll pick it up tomorrow again; mom might be looking for me already. Or—you, already,” he said, getting to his knees and aiding Kageyama’s effort to clear all the loose papers and notes. “Get home and get some proper sleep. You’re gonna need it if you want to pay attention in class. Can you get home alright?”

“Yes, thanks,” Kageyama replied, shoving Oikawa’s clear file back in his bag and getting up. “I’ll be on my way. Good night.”

“Yeah.” Oikawa waved him off, slumping back to the floor, and it was only when the door was completely (gently) shut that he realized, despite everything, just how polite Kageyama always was with him, even when they weren’t being friendly. He huffed, sank to the floor, just a little bit pissed off.

 

* * *

 

Spending this much time with Kageyama was bad for the soul, Oikawa figured the following morning as he walked along to school. He couldn’t remember waking up as disgruntled and lethargic as he did about an hour ago and even now that he was dressed and up and about and halfway to his destination, he still desperately wanted to crawl back to bed and curl up in the sheets. It was a good thing, he supposed, that they’d done and exchanged homework last night and therefore didn’t need to meet up at Kitagawa Daiichi today. His body could actually walk with Iwaizumi for once (and he really, _really_ hoped that Kageyama would think to do that) and Oikawa could be unjustly annoyed with him in peace.

He wasn’t sure what it was. Certainly, Kageyama hadn’t done anything too controversial or anger-inducing in the past few days. Perhaps he could try and pin it on the fact that Kageyama was an incompetent student and occupant of Oikawa’s body, but neither of the two was his fault, and if there was anyone to be pissed at, it was probably whoever manufactured the god-forsaken cookies that got them into this mess, but he wasn’t mad at them. He’d never even thought about the manufacturer up till this point (though that could be an important lead; he created a new note on Kageyama’s phone reminding him to consider the idea further). Kageyama was the damper to his mood, no matter the time of day. He could recognize that, but he couldn’t—absolutely couldn’t—figure out _why._

All he knew was that it could manifest in either the most basic or the most awful of ways, depending on what his subconscious was in the mood for, and he couldn’t even control it even when he knew it was there—the perfect example being his sitting in class, about to take a test, completely consciously making the decision to deliberately half-ass Kageyama’s work, seeing as everything he did aside from volleyball was substandard anyway and he needed to be as realistic as possible. It made sense, but it wasn’t nice, and Oikawa was highly content with just the half of the package.

It wasn’t until practice that he’d realized he and Kageyama were supposed to be making a concerted effort to be kind to each other as some sort of gradual solution to their little swap, and his gritting his teeth and irately muttering under his breath during a little skirmish had left him idle long enough to end up receiving a ball with his forehead and falling to the ground.

Well. This was definitely going to be a lot harder than he thought, creating the perfect balance between realism and ‘be nice to Kageyama’-ism. But there were a lot of other things he could help Kageyama with without ultimately giving himself away.

One of these was Kageyama’s friendlessness, or so he remembered when he and the rest of the team had retreated back to the locker room to get changed. It was pretty easy to determine who were friends and who weren’t, based on who talked to who. The two second years, Nishinoya and Tanaka (he found), seemed to get along too well for everyone’s liking, and the rest of the second years followed closely, a bit more mellowly, behind. The third years were obviously close-knit, but nice enough to address even Kageyama every now and again when nobody else was. He figured that the shrimp (still Hinata, but Oikawa still didn’t really care) was Kageyama’s number one hope at communication, but Oikawa hadn’t spoken to him since the day he prematurely went home feigning sickness. 

He didn’t really want to stick to the orange pogo stick unnecessarily, and so he figured that the glasses guy and the jump float server would have to do. He hurriedly did the buttons to his uniform upon hearing them announce their leave and quickly grabbed his things, equally quickly announced his own departure from the rest of the group, and broke into a jog down the hall and down the stairs, slowing only to a walk when he’d fallen into step beside the silently walking pair of friends, and then coming to a stop one step after they did.

“What are you doing?” the one in glasses—Tsukishima—asked, his face genuinely perplexed.

This didn’t seem like something Kageyama would do without prompting, but Oikawa was determined to see it through. “Walking home,” he simply said.

“Uhh,” the freckled one—Yamaguchi—said, looking friendly enough but curious, without a doubt, “with us?”

“Sure,” Oikawa replied, like he’d been given an invitation.

Yamaguchi only blinked at him, and Tsukishima looked far from amused. He raised a single eyebrow. “Why?”

Because even stoics got tired of being friendless oafs too, Oikawa thought, but physically, he only shrugged. “Thought it might be nice for a change. Is there a problem?”

There probably was. Kageyama, as far as Oikawa could remember from their junior high days, had never been one to initiate interaction with people he didn’t explicitly have business with. From a fairly objective standpoint, this was something akin to an underground salesman cozying up to the nearest bystander in the hope of blending with the crowd and offering illegal substances—or at least, that was what Oikawa had thought as he watched Yamaguchi and Tsukishima exchange confused, uneasy glances. Despite this, however, Tsukishima resumed his walk with only a minimally displeased face on and Yamaguchi had offered a shrug-and-smile combination that told Oikawa it was perfectly okay to keep walking alongside him.

He honestly didn’t know what he’d expected, or why he’d thought this was a good idea. Neither Yamaguchi nor (especially) Tsukishima were very known for their skill and inclination towards holding conversation, he remembered, and the initial parts of the journey were completely wordless, filled only by the background noise of an already-quiet street, the distant roar of engines and giggles of carefree children. Still, it felt different, better than the walks he regularly took each afternoon where only his footsteps sounded against the pavement, and he supposed it was a start.

A little ways down the road, however, another one of Yamaguchi’s ‘uhhs’ floated into his ear, and he glanced to his side, Tsukishima deliberately walking a little slower so their eyes could meet. “Hey, Kageyama,” Yamaguchi continued, “don’t you usually walk home with Hinata?”

The thought of it made Oikawa want to grimace, but Kageyama probably wouldn’t, and so he kept his face straight. “I guess,” he said, and it truly only was a guess. “But he hasn’t really talked to me lately.”

“He’s definitely busy talking to everyone else,” Tsukishima chimed in, though eye contact seemed pretty much impossible with the guy unless it was required. “He feels weird, you know.”

“About?”

“You. You not tossing to him, you not yelling at him. Everyone’s afraid that it’s gonna hurt our chances at Nationals if you two aren’t at the top of your game, and I’m pretty sure an intervention’s coming up soon.”

Oikawa didn’t think he’d ever heard of anyone feeling weird about _not_ getting yelled at, but that jumping shrimp was really one oddity after another. “Let him feel weird for a little while longer then,” he replied with another shrug.

“Wait, so you really deliberately aren’t tossing to him?” Yamaguchi asked.

That was both a yes and a no. He would if he could, and that was the truth, but the fact of the matter was he couldn’t. He had no idea what toss Kageyama had formulated in order to cater to the jumping shrimp's desires and weaknesses and asking about his own special move was definitely out of the question, along with—sadly—performing it.

“I have my reasons,” Oikawa said briefly.

Yamaguchi appeared concerned, and even Tsukishima had bothered to spare him a sideways glance, but they didn’t press the issue further, and that alone told Oikawa that this was an alright club of mini-friends to be temporarily associated with. One of these days, he was going to sit Kageyama down and they were going to discuss what could be done about this whole toss situation (among every other goddamned complicated situation they were dealing with at the moment) and he was going to win the rest of the team’s trust back, but for now, he was content with this—keeping his distance and not getting bothered about it.

As content as one could be, anyway, when walking in an awkward silence with two people who had perfectly functioning mouths and an entire arsenal of personality that Oikawa had no idea about. It wasn’t something Kageyama would do without prompting, again, but the people person in Oikawa simply couldn’t stand (walk) idly by while two perfectly eligible conversational partners were in his presence and _weren't talking_.

And so, convinced that Kageyama was going to thank him later for this, he eyed the expensive-looking earphones looped around Tsukishima’s neck. “You listen to music a lot,” he noted.

Tsukishima looked like he’d been offered off-the-counter medication. “What about it?”

“What kind?”

“None of your business.”

This kid had ‘mad dog’ written all over him; Oikawa suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and wrap the guy in an unwarranted, ‘let’s all get along’ hug just to piss him off. “Come on, it can’t be that bad if you like it so much. Unless your taste is shit,” he said instead, and then extended his hand. “Let me see your phone.”

“I knew you were insufferable before, but this is an entirely new level,” Tsukishima said, inching his body away from Kageyama’s (quite literally; it was still Oikawa inside, though, however unfortunate the fact was) and glaring at his hand with the intent to dissolve it with acid. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I think he’s trying to be friendly, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi suggested, and Oikawa couldn’t help but feel like some sort of specimen under experimentation, learning how to interact with the world for the first time.

“Well, he’s doing a terrible job of it.”

“So are you,” Oikawa pointed out. “And at least I’m making the effort.” He wriggled his fingers, palm still wide open and waiting for a phone.

“No one asked you to,” Tsukishima said, frown deep, but he sighed anyway, pulled his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it. “There, King. Don’t check any messages.”

The word _king_ stuck to Oikawa for far longer than it should, his mind drifting all the way back to this time last year and to the sight of Kageyama sitting on the bench during an official game, defeated but not by the opponent. It was familiar, and not just because he’d been at the match, but he wouldn’t dwell on that now that Tsukishima’s phone was in his grasp. He did take the time to wonder, however, whether ‘king’ was something Tsukishima had taken to calling him—a nickname, maybe. If that was the case, it was no wonder Kageyama had never bothered hounding him about his taste in music before.

Oikawa didn’t really think about Kageyama too often in contexts outside volleyball, so he’d been mildly surprised days ago when he’d sifted through Kageyama’s phone files and found a considerable collection of music sitting in one of the folders—music he’d added to the phone via an external card himself, it seemed, perhaps to listen to when he went out jogging or the like. He hadn’t really recognized any of the songs or artists and just boiled it down to their tastes being different.

Tsukishima’s collection was bigger by far, much more diverse too, Oikawa being able to find some albums he was actually familiar with but also numerous that he never knew existed at all. He clicked on artists at random, silently read the song titles, refrained from clicking on any one track and risk ruining the playlist Tsukishima currently had queued and, subsequently, the friendship he was trying to forge. He could feel Tsukishima’s eyes on him, staring only through the peripherals, as if he half-expected the device to catch fire simply because of Kageyama’s touch. He could kind of relate, to be honest, but his thumb continued to swipe away.

It stopped, however, as it hovered over a thumbnail of album art Oikawa could have sworn he’d seen before. _Droiture_ was the artist’s (most likely, a band) name, and though it wasn’t familiar in the sense that he’d indulged in their work prior to this day, it rang a bell. He clicked on the band, scrolled through the songs, and then recognized several titles right off the bat, realized that he’d seen them on Kageyama’s phone as well, and allowed his eyebrows to rise. The two who butted heads on the court when they so much as stepped on the front line together actually had similar tastes.

This was going to be good. He hummed shortly and glanced at Tsukishima. “I listen to them too.”

“Huh?”

Oikawa tilted the phone in Tsukishima’s direction. “I have their music saved on my phone too. Looks like we have that in common.”

For one reason or another, Tsukishima looked scandalized, eyebrows knitted together as he slowly but surely took his phone back and, more importantly, out of Oikawa’s grasp. “Great,” he said, too slowly, too lowly.

And when Yamaguchi had leaned in for a closer look at the phone and lit up, Oikawa understood why. “Hey, cool,” he said. “This is Tsukki’s favourite band.”

It was so hard, _so hard_ not to smile.

 

* * *

 

For the first time since he entered Oikawa’s body, Kageyama finally knew what he could do with his free hours after school.

It felt really strange, having so much idle time after classes ended, a hole in his daily itinerary where volleyball should have been, but now—what with his extra predicaments and fuck-ton of concepts to cram into his brain in time for February, should it have to come to that—he felt sort of grateful that Oikawa’s body was no longer expected on the court (only sort of; it still felt disorienting somehow). There was so much to learn, so much to understand, so little room left for all of it despite last night’s discussions only having been about the preliminaries, the basics that weren’t basic, and so little opportunity.

If he survived this, he thought, he swore he would one day get himself _two_ helpings of milk for lunch. And a whole bag of buns. He wouldn’t share with Hinata either.

He’d gone off to locate the library immediately after the final bell and after a good twenty minutes of roaming and around half a minute to linger outside the doors because _is there some sort of protocol that needs to be followed when entering this place, what the hell do I do,_ he was finally situated in his own carrel, Oikawa’s clear file and notes all sprawled out on the table, ready for scrutiny. The place was quiet, impressively so (Kageyama knew a handful of people who probably wouldn’t last two seconds inside), and he was glad to note it. It would be a grand aid to the concentration. He picked up a notebook and began to read.

And for a while time passed normally, and he was proud to say he’d actually managed to learn a thing or two. Neither Math nor Science had ever been his forte, exactly, but they weren’t English, and that was enough to reassure him that he wouldn’t struggle too badly, if his fair comprehension of the facts scribbled in Oikawa’s notes wasn’t proof enough. As far as he saw it, both the subjects were concerned with reading and understanding certain rules and then applying them in real life, and using a language that actually made sense. He could live with that, he figured as he covered the answer to an identification question in Oikawa’s notes, gave an answer in his head, and found that his and the one in writing more or less matched.

But everything he knew about the laws of Physics and even his own identity were shaken out of his brain when he suddenly felt two firm grips, one on each of Oikawa’s arms, and then felt himself getting mercilessly hauled of out of his seat without warning. 

He yelped, the sound of Oikawa’s voice ringing in the quiet hall above the awful scratching of chair legs against the floor, the sound of the librarians urgent, “Shh!” nothing but white noise to his mind, fuzzy from the abrupt onslaught of surprise and confusion. He could only gape as he was dragged, his feet struggling and failing to keep up with his assailants’ pace even when they didn’t want to be moving, all the way to the library doors and then outside of it.

As he was recklessly released, he managed to register the faces of two other members of Seijoh's volleyball team, the spiker who could set and the middle blocker who’d marked Hinata. Their arms were crossed.

“Oikawa Tooru, how dare you?”

Kageyama blinked up at them. “What?”

“How dare you _nonchalantly_ study in the library after ignoring us and Iwaizumi for days?” the wing spiker said. Kageyama couldn’t decide whether he was legitimately angry or not, but his partner-in-crime’s unserious face and nodding was probably a good enough indication. “And now, we find out that you went to visit club practice without us _and_ that you stormed off on our dear kouhai Yahaba after he asked you for your wisdom? Have you no shame?”

“Wait—who?” Kageyama asked, turned around when his attackers prompted him to.

The reserve setter now-captain was sheepishly standing behind him, a distraught look on his face and a nervous, uneasy air floating all around the space he took up. He lifted a hand to scratch at the back of his head the second he and Kageyama locked eyes, accompanied the gesture with a wary and crooked smile, and _oh;_ it clicked in Kageyama’s brain. He’d almost forgotten (read: had actually forgotten) that he’d walked off on the guy in his frustration and hadn’t been back to explain himself since. Thankfully, he was already past that sudden sour mood. It was probably only proper that he apologized.

Before he could, however, the reserve setter (Yahaba?) was quickly descending into a very low bow. “Oikawa-san, I’m really sorry!”

“Wha—“ Kageyama gawked at his prostrate form. “For what?”

Yahaba minimally raised his head to meet Kageyama’s eyes in a brief glance, then glanced elsewhere, then at Kageyama, then elsewhere, as he spoke. “I—I’m not sure what I did either, exactly,” he started nervously, “but whatever it is, I think it might have made you mad, and I’m really sorry! Please don’t hate me or stop helping the team! I promise I’ll try and be a more competent captain.” He lowered his head again.

“Tut, tut, tut,” the spiker said again, shaking his head and sending a judgmental glare Kageyama’s way—and Kageyama cringed. “You see what you do? What do you have to say for yourself?”

His apology was over but the long-lasting effects of his shame and regret evidently weren’t; Yahaba didn’t move a muscle from his current position as Kageyama approached. “Please—um.” He hesitantly reached out and tapped Oikawa’s junior on the shoulder. Yahaba looked up. “Please lift your head. It’s okay—I mean. I’m the one who should be sorry. I was just, uh, not in a very good mood. And I can be an asshole sometimes.”

“Preach,” said the middle blocker.

“Sometimes?” the unmistakable voice of Iwaizumi called from the back.

Most of the time, all the time, the depths of Kageyama’s mind echoed out to him, and he was relieved to hear that even the people from Seijoh—Oikawa’s peers, his friends, people he actually liked—weren’t exempt from all his unlikeable quirks and idiosyncrasies. “Yeah,” he continued, “and—and I’m temperamental too. One minute I’m teasing and then the next I act like I’m the one who was getting teased. I like to yell a lot too, and a lot of the time, I don’t think before I yell so I end up saying stupid stuff—“

“O—okay, Oikawa-san, I get it,” Yahaba cut in, raising his hands up, and an alarming burst of laughter resounded from behind the both of them. “You don’t have to degrade yourself so much.”

“No, no, do it again, I wasn’t looking!”

“Don’t make a fuss outside the library,” Iwaizumi reprimanded, but even his speech was punctuated by condescending snickering. Kageyama felt his face heating up despite the fact that it wasn’t truly him they were laughing at.

He looked at the three of them from the corner of his eye, laughing their hearts out and bantering (“So _this_ is what Oikawa sounds like when he’s being honest!”), and wondered if they were truly Oikawa’s friends, wondered if doing things like laughing at each other’s mistakes and dragging one another outside of libraries were things that friends did. It seemed likely enough, given how often Sugawara sent death blows to his fellow third years’ arms and Ennoshita and the others made fun of Tanaka for being bald, but did that mean that he and Hinata and Tsukishima, with all their insults and name-calling, were friends too?

It was an odd kind of logic, and something Kageyama figured wasn’t that important at the moment anyway, and so he focused instead on the two bags that Iwaizumi had slung on his shoulders—in particular, the one with a familiar volleyball keychain. “Is that mine?” he asked, pointing to the accessory. “Why do you have my stuff?”

“We’re glad you asked,” said the wing spiker. “Seeing as you have so heavily inconvenienced Captain Yahaba over here—“

“No, he hasn’t!” Yahaba protested.

“—we’ve decided that you’re going to have to make it up to him in the best way we all know there is: _volleyball_.”

Kageyama let him finish his flashy, two-handed gesture before speaking. “But I’m studying.”

“Yeah, well too bad, we’re going to practice. Matsukawa, onward!”

“Roger that.”

In unison, they marched over and, once again, each grabbed one of Kageyama’s arms and made haste for the gymnasium (and ignored the resulting protests in the form of Kageyama’s ‘buts’), Iwaizumi noncommittally following close behind with Yahaba, who still looked like he had committed unforgivable crimes against nature.

Their arrival at the gym was met with utmost enthusiasm, to say the least, much like Kageyama’s had been just days ago. Only this time, Kageyama was anything but the center of attention. Practice had ultimately, untimely halted and every last one of the remaining members crowded around the doors, not at all fazed by their former captain’s entrapment in the hands of his friends—too star-struck upon the arrival of their former vice captain instead. Kageyama couldn’t help but watch Iwaizumi sending good-natured waves and friendly pats on the back for a few lucky souls, couldn’t help but remember their days in junior high, when the entirety of the team would practically pounce on Iwaizumi while Kageyama would watch Oikawa complain from afar.

He supposed, in that respect, nothing had really changed. A lot of these people were his teammates back in junior high, after all. The sight of all of them gathered together in their sweaty shirts and rapidly-emptying water bottles would have sent a wave of nostalgia washing over Kageyama’s person had he not remembered that this wasn’t his team, that everything was completely different.

Kindaichi and Kunimi were very subtle but very good reminders of that little fact. He’d always known that Kindaichi held a lot of respect for upperclassmen and a special kind of respect for Iwaizumi in particular, but the sight of Kunimi bounding up to the retired members with almost the same eagerness as the rest of the club, with a little yet genuinely happy smile, was new. Different. And it kind of sucked but it was also refreshing and he didn’t even know what to feel about it anymore.

The four of them hadn’t bothered changing into any gear and launching into the actual practice fray, content with sitting on the sidelines and watching as their juniors ran around, jumped around, and struggled to impress. Oikawa’s droopy-eyed friend (Matsukawa, or so he discovered) called out advice for his once fellow blockers, the more talkative one (Hanamaki, they called him) screamed encouragement for the team’s spikers, Iwaizumi yelled at someone named Kyoutani twice for being too aggressive, and Kageyama simply sat among them, observing, his eyes on the setter they were going to have to deal with the following year, how different he truly was from Oikawa even while just setting up balls for the players in line.

When it was Kindaichi’s turn to spike, however, Kageyama found his focus shifting. The toss was high, the timing was slow, just like he remembered it from their matches with Seijoh and even longer ago. The subsequent pump of the fist upon seeing the ball land cleanly inside of the court was a little less fresh in his memory when it wasn’t accompanied by feelings of disappointment due to the opponent scoring a point, but Kageyama did his best to keep his expression light as he watched his former teammate throw a thanks Yahaba’s way and walk away from an attack, content.

Their eyes locked, and Kindaichi wore a small smile and waved. Kageyama jumped, but he waved back.

What was left of the practice ran fairly smoothly, and by the time the coaches had declared it time for a short break, everything that had occupied his mind and tried to grab at his heart just moments ago was gone, his mind now one big volleyball court where the rest of his team stood. There was going to be a lot for them to develop if they didn’t want to be pummelled, he thought. It didn’t look like there was anything particularly interesting to watch out for from Seijoh as it was now, but he figured something similar could be said for Karasuno, the minute their own season ended and the third years left for good, for college or whatever else.

In silence, he considered it: losing Sawamura’s receiving expertise would definitely leave a big hole in their defense, losing Azumane was one less considerably powerful and reliable spiker, and even losing Sugawara would give them only a single setter, fewer options for plays in times they needed creativity the most. It was a lot to lose, and somehow, he highly doubted that by some miracle, a couple of first years would be able to give them the extra edge they needed, though he did muse on the possibility of another, younger setter coming into the picture. Not that he would let anybody on the team surpass him, of course—

“Hi, Oikawa-san.”

The greeting was friendly and the voice, familiar. Kageyama shook himself out of his ‘mind court’ and looked up to see Kindaichi, towel around his shoulders, drinking water in hand. His expression looked as accommodating as his tone of voice sounded, nearly had Kageyama jolting up and stepping back. He hadn’t seen that kind of face looking at him in _years._

It wasn’t looking at him right now, however, but at Oikawa. He took a deep breath and gave a quick, “Hey,” in response.

Kindaichi only blinked at him for a while, almost expectantly, and then he was clearing his throat and angling himself towards the rest of the assembly. “So, uh,” he said, “how—how have you been?”

Oikawa was the initiator of all conversation, Kageyama remembered, and Kindaichi could be just as awkward as he was given the right circumstances. He was going to have to talk more if this chat of theirs was going to last. He swallowed. “Um, good. I’ve been good. Really good. The best.” Okay, this wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but Kindaichi was thoughtfully nodding anyway. Upperclassmen truly did have that kind of privilege sometimes, a privilege where no ridicule came from the younger ones if they respected you enough. “And…you?”

“I’m okay,” Kindaichi said, eyeing the rest of the team, all wiping off sweat and stretching and talking amongst themselves. “I’ve been putting a little bit more into practice lately. I just hope it doesn’t mess with my academics too badly.” He let out a short laugh.

“You’ve always been good at studying,” Kageyama found himself saying, the little fact resurfacing in his brain from the deepest parts of his vault of experiences and then pouring out of his mouth without warning. “You’ll probably be okay.”

Kindaichi paused. “Um, thanks, but how did you know that I’m good at studying?”

And then Kageyama paused, tried to keep from wincing. Playing the role of anyone but himself was proving to be incredibly difficult so far, his only saviour being the power that appearances held over perception. “Uh,” he tried, “I mean—you wouldn’t get into Kitagawa Daiichi and Aoba Johsai and survive if you weren’t? Right?”

There was probably a better combination of intonations that he could’ve used on the same couple of words, but Kindaichi was relaxing all the same. “Yeah, I guess. Thanks,” he said again.

He never expected anything too good to come out of his first conversation with Kindaichi in months, just last April during their first unofficial match against each other, and back then, it was okay. It was still okay now, kind of, but there was an odd taste on his speaking tongue, something fleeting, almost as temporary as he figured this moment inevitably was. He wasn’t in his body. He was talking to Kindaichi but he also _wasn’t_ talking to Kindaichi and it sucked, so badly, that this was his first opportunity to be casual with someone he didn’t think he’d ever see smile at him again but that someone wasn’t even smiling at _him._ He probably couldn’t.

But it was because all of this was so unfortunate that he wasn’t going to allow either of them to fall silent and apart. Not anymore. “How—“ he started, a bit too rashly to be considered natural for someone as eloquent as Oikawa, and Kindaichi jumped. “How’s, um. Life with the new team? Are you guys getting used to it?”

“Oh,” Kindaichi said, “well.” He examined the team once more. “Yahaba-san has a pretty good handle on everybody so far, even Kyoutani-san, surprisingly. It’s still pretty hard, adjusting ourselves to be where you and Iwaizumi-san and the others used to be, but I think we’re getting there. Everyone’s—“ He bit his lip, briefly. “Everyone’s really fired up because of our last match in the Spring High. We’re not gonna let ourselves get sloppy just because our members aren’t the same.”

Kageyama nodded. “That’s good,” he said, and it was the honest truth. A battle wasn’t a proper battle if the opponent wasn’t giving it their all, and he felt glad to know that Kindaichi wasn’t the least bit discouraged from giving it _his_ all despite everything. He stole an abbreviated glance at Kunimi in another corner of the room, wondered if _he_ was giving it his all as well, if their final match of the year had him as frustrated and driven as the rest of his comrades were.

But there were other questions lingering in the back of Kageyama’s mind. He looked back up at Kindaichi, right at his face, determined to catch any movements, every shift. “Do you like your new setter?”

His features halted, save for a few confused blinks of the eye. “Uh, yeah, I mean—he’s set for us a lot of times before, so I can’t say it’s new, exactly, but. Yeah.” And then the corner of his lips turned up, so slightly that the motion was barely there, partnered with another short laugh. “We still miss you as official setter, of course. I don’t think that’s ever gonna change.”

Kageyama hadn’t intended to pause, but he did anyway. “Anything’s a cut above what you had in junior high, though.”

Just like that, any traces of a smile had vanished into thin air. Kindaichi wasn’t exactly frowning, not yet, but his face and his eyes were dark. Numb. Unreadable.

But Kageyama wasn’t about to stop, not when he was (in a single, very minuscule sense of the word) lucky enough to be inhabiting the body of a person who lived to pry in other people’s business. “Are you not comfortable talking about him?” he prompted.

“Not really. Well—I mean—“ Kindaichi let out a breath, face changing into one that made him look as though he were squirming. “I think I talk about him more often than I let on, so I wouldn’t say I’m _uncomfortable,_ but.”

“But?”

“It—it kind of sucks to think about right now,” Kindaichi slowly admitted, letting out a breathless, joyless laugh through now gritted teeth and a hollow smile. “I mean—oh—sorry, is it really okay for me to talk to you about this? I don’t wanna bore you with any emotional crap.”

“Of course it is.” _Of course it is._

“I don’t regret it, really,” Kindaichi continued, after briefly studying his upperclassman’s face with a wary look on his own. “He was wrong, maybe we were wrong too, but what happened, happened. I can’t really do anything about it now and I’ve moved on, mostly. But—“ He crossed his arms far too tightly—almost as if he was embracing himself, shielding from something, shielding something—and deeply exhaling. “Sometimes I still can’t help but wonder what could have been different. Like—if I had just been faster like he said I should be, would I have sided with him? Would the rest of the team have turned on both of us or would it have all been okay if I could just match him? If I was good enough?”

Kageyama didn’t know. He didn’t think it was possible for him to know, not when his mind had always been clouded by the haze of desperation for victory and his eyes overrun by images of him standing on top of everybody else, alone, wielding the crown and the trophies and, most importantly, the ball. But that was then, and this was now, and now there was one thing he knew for sure:

“You were good enough,” he said, not exactly in reply, and Kindaichi looked at him, eyes marginally wider. “Good enough to make your own contributions to the team even without matching him and he just didn’t see that. You could’ve won the way you were even without the toss that he wanted, and he didn’t see that. It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” Kindaichi said, his brows and eyes relaxing. But did he really? “I just—it sounds stupid but I kind of wish that things didn’t need to get so extreme. Like, no, he wasn’t being a very good teammate, but then again, what we did to finally tell him that once and for all wasn’t exactly the best thing in the world either. I can’t imagine how we must have made him feel.”

Right then and there, Kageyama could tell him exactly how it felt. First and foremost, it was a storm of horror and confusion. (Why are they giving up? Why don’t they want to win? Why are they looking at me like that?) And then it was a slap to the face and a great flood of shame. (I’m getting taken off the court. I’m not needed to win? I’ve outlived my usefulness? I’m only getting started, but I’m off the damn court.) Everything afterwards was static (we lost, it’s done, it’s gone, it’s over), until he was moving on, unwilling to let anything hold him back.

But Kindaichi didn’t sound like he was. He said he was, but he still had so much to say—things he didn’t bother telling Kageyama himself when he had the chance—and he didn’t seem finished.

“You…could talk to him about it?” Kageyama tried. “It’s probably not too late to fix things, if you still want to.” You walking contradiction, he didn’t add. Tell it to me straight, he didn’t add.

Yet another humourless laugh was the reply, along with eyes that looked skyward. “I think it might be, though. Especially after what I said after our practice match.”

 _Don’t apologize, because I won’t apologize either._ It was the setting of a boundary, ground rules, something Kindaichi was quick to come up with and Kageyama, equally quick to accept. The words rang clear in his head, almost as if they were thrown at him by the bathroom sinks just yesterday. But: “What did you say?” he asked anyway, like Oikawa probably would.

A different, unfamiliar look then settled on Kindaichi’s face. “He was going to apologize,” he said, sounding grim, sombre, “but I didn’t let him. I said some things like—we're not gonna repair any friendships because there never was a friendship to begin with, and I basically made getting along uncharted territory. He just said yes to everything. And why wouldn't he? He probably didn't want me yelling more than I already was.”

And then a different feeling was settling, bubbling inside of Kageyama’s chest, like the sudden rush of getting past an opponent’s match point and levelling out the playing field once again, or something similar. Never, in a million years, would he have thought that Kindaichi shared some of the blame, had any doubts about what he and Kageyama and even Kunimi with them were, and what they could be, but here it was. Here _they_ were, and suddenly it felt like he could still win. Maybe even like he’d already won.

But there was more. “Wait,” Kageyama said, “you told him you didn’t want to be friends after the practice match.”

Seemingly unnerved at Kageyama’s (Oikawa’s) vested interest, Kindaichi recoiled, eyebrows furrowed. “Uh, sort of, yeah.”

“And you regret that?”

“Kind of?”

“So—“ Kageyama felt like an overexcited, panting dog hovering over its master holding treats, but he wouldn’t put it past Oikawa to appear similarly either. “Does that mean you want to be friends now?”

The pause that followed after was excruciating. Kindaichi truly was one big contradiction with the body of a teenage boy—a body too tall and strong and yet a face and a façade that seemed to want to cave in on itself. He still had his hands on his elbows, his expression unchanging, and the lack of words exchanged between them did nothing but bring Kageyama restlessness, one that nagged inside his thoughts, screamed, because any minute now the coaches could call them back and Kindaichi would have to leave and all of this would just be hanging in between them, equally likely to be picked up or lost depending on the initiatives they took, and Kageyama couldn’t let that happen. He needed to know, and he needed to know _now._

Thankfully, it seemed Kindaichi would let him. “I—“ he stammered, “I’m not sure about friends. Maybe. But…” He was the embodiment of all that was chagrined. “Getting out of the danger zone…would be nice.”

Kageyama straightened up just as Kindaichi laughed anew, a little bit more abashed and a lot less bitter this time around, his eyes soft, almost sad. “Though that’s probably a bust too,” he continued. “Just because I want it doesn’t mean he automatically does too.”

It wasn’t a bust, or any other self-deprecating name Kindaichi could call it. Kageyama couldn’t for certain qualify what exactly the danger zone was, but he was willing to take several, most probably really good, guesses, and was willing to spring up from all of them. This was the best thing that Oikawa (or at least his body) would be able to do for him, he realized, and if he got this right Kageyama swore, absolutely _swore,_ that he would study his ass off for however long needed be, and he was going to pass all of Oikawa’s classes, and when they got back to their bodies, maybe things wouldn’t be perfect, but there were, at least, going to be things that had actually gotten _better._

“You should talk to him,” Kageyama said, under the effective guise of a knowing, well-respected former Seijoh captain. “He probably feels the exact same way.”

It was hardly anything, a negligible change of expression, but the light and pure relief on Kindaichi’s face made Kageyama’s heart swell.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinkunikage??? nah this is an oikage fic that’s my otp what even is— [trips] [hundreds of thousands of kinkunikage headcanons spill out of jacket] w-what a weirdass ship i these arent mine im just [gathering them up frantically sweating] listen i just listen fuck [thousands of kinkunikage scenarios scatter across the floor] shit fcuk im holding them for a friend j u ST LISTEN
> 
> (in all seriousness, this is oikage and **purely** oikage idek how people manage to put two ships concerning the same people in one fic sometimes. but i reallyreallyreallyreallyreally love kinkunikage (and any permutation of the three) as well dfbg)
> 
> FULL DISCLAIMER THE BAND IS MADE UP but the name isn’t randomly generated like it usually is with other things i create for fic’s sake (lol; ffs) because [this generator](http://www.bandnamemaker.com/) is horrible and the world will thrive without having bands like ‘puss solitaire’ or ‘led wedge and the dissolving colon’. i did base this band off of vertueux, though—an actual Japanese band with a french word for a name.


	7. your face in red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: feelings will be hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY!! an update just in time for oikawa the best boi’s birthday! happy birthday, my leaf-headed son, you beautiful disaster, im love you. aside from that, however, today’s a pretty special day for me too, because it’s my ~1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF WRITING THEM OIKAGES~ thaaat’s right! my [first oikage oneshot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7538506) was posted on ao3 in the afternoon of july 20th, 2016, because in the morning i saw one of my favourite artists planning to release like 5 iwaoi birthday art pieces and then i checked the oikage tag and found jACK SHIT and thought ‘that’s not fair!!’ so now, here i am, 14.5 posted oikage fics and several other unposted ones later. are y’all proud of me. are you.

The silence in Kageyama’s bedroom that night honestly would have been overwhelmingly powerful were it not periodically interrupted by animalistic growling. Oikawa looked up from his Karasuno first year homework sheet and sent a pointed glance Kageyama’s (who was making faces at his Aoba Johsai third year homework sheet) way. He’d heard a bunch of strange noises coming from his little junior’s mouth a few times before, mostly in middle school, but he’d always assumed that they came as a package deal with the intensity of their sport. Apparently not.

Tutoring, to be quite honest, wasn’t going too bad. Kageyama cared more about this than Oikawa thought he ever could and seemed to be doing work any chance he could get, reading Oikawa's notes and answering exercises in between classes and hanging out with Iwaizumi and company. It was rather amusing, if a little bit confusing, as well as very slightly touching, seeing him glaring at equations and facts that weren't supposed to concern him until two years down the line, if he ever did decide he was going to go the same path that Oikawa was.

It would probably take a long time before he could answer Oikawa's current homework without attempting to pull his own hair out, though. Oikawa's entire night so far had simply consisted of either staring at Kageyama's homework sheet and choosing which questions to get right and get wrong, or staring at his own homework sheet while Kageyama complained about things he didn't understand and asked for help. Doing twice as much homework, the very idea of it, honestly should have been disgusting—but Oikawa was, dare he say it, actually having fun. Probably because watching Kageyama rage was like watching an episode of Animal Fight Night more than anything, but still.

Late into the evening, long after the first year homework had gotten done and Oikawa had taken to browsing Kageyama's magazines and then his phone on the floor while waiting to entertain questions, noises resounded from downstairs, noises of a door swinging open and then slamming closed, something he hadn't heard without being the instigator since he first found himself outside of his body.

He jolted up. "Hey, Tobio, could that be your mom?"

"Yeah, probably."

"She's home," Oikawa said, mostly to himself, and then let out a short, almost giddy laugh. "Wow, I actually heard her coming home. For the first time! It's definitely Friday night. What do I do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—what, do I go downstairs and greet her?"

"You don't have to."

He didn't bat an eyelash, didn't even look up from the graphs he claimed to hate so much, and Oikawa couldn't help but fall limp where he sat, any excitement he might have felt earlier now washed up and incinerated by Kageyama's nonchalant, uncaring attitude.

"Oh," Oikawa said, but there was a lot more resting at the tip of his tongue. He hadn't spoken to this woman at all, barely even saw her, hadn't properly _met_ her and he was supposed to be inside the body of her son. Her _son_. If there was anyone a mother was supposed to talk to regularly, it was probably her son. Her _only_ son, the only other occupant of their living space, to boot. But no matter what Oikawa said or did, that little fact didn't seem like a big deal to either of them, mother and son alike. That couldn't be normal, could it?

If he was going to use his own familial relations as a reference, then no, it certainly wasn't normal. Oikawa's parents had their faults and Oikawa himself certainly had a lot of complaints (and what those complaints were didn't matter at the moment, and hopefully wouldn't for a long time) about their interactions, but for the most part, they were happy together—or, at least, talked on the regular. His mother left late and got home early and his father left work even before Oikawa could leave practice most days so, with the exception of his older siblings, both out living their own lives, the dinner table was complete and vibrant. They asked questions about his day, he asked questions about theirs. They shared stories, laughed at stupid jokes, made fun of the first and second child who weren't around to get pissed at them for it.

Most days, he could consider his parents his friends, and he'd initially believed that Kageyama would be able to say the same, that his friendlessness wasn't an absolute. And now that he knew it was, he wasn't sure what he wanted to do.

He couldn't ask any more questions without risking Kageyama telling him off for being a distraction, so for the moment, he decided all he _could_ do was stay silent, lie on his back and tinker with Kageyama's phone in whatever way he could. He had a good number of contacts but an underwhelming number of conversations, Oikawa's own number sitting at the top of the list still saved as Unknown despite being the most active message box as of late. He stared at the default name, eyed the rest of the contacts all with properly typed-out labels ('Hinata Shouyou', 'Sawamura Daichi', et cetera), and then promptly saved his number as 'coolest senpai ever' before opening up Hinata's message box.

Halfway through the boring conversation consisting of shrimpy's emoji-laden messages and Kageyama's own curt, faceless responses, he heard his own ringtone chime. Kageyama dropped his pen in favour of fetching Oikawa's phone and examining the newly-acquired notification. "It's your mom," he told Oikawa, who sat up. "She's asking where you are and what time you're getting home."

"Uh, no," Oikawa replied with a little laugh, "that's mom speak for 'there is no reason for you to be out this late without informing me beforehand that you're going to be out this late so come home already'; trust me. Just tell her you were studying at a friend's house and that you're on your way home. Start packing up too."

Kageyama's murmur of agreement and demeanour as he followed said instructions were as noncommittal as ever, but Oikawa tensed. His body certainly was studying at someone else's house, but could that 'someone else' truly be classified as a friend at this point? Was _that_ where all of this was leading up to? Would it even be possible for the two of them, them and their hard heads and natural tendency to clash and constant need to get above the other, to ever become friends?

Did Kageyama even _want_ to be his friend?

The concept was preposterous. To be Kageyama's 'friend' was not something that crossed Oikawa's mind without being brushed off or violently shoved away. But then again, Oikawa was inside his own body then, living his own life, regarding Kageyama as merely a volleyball machine rather than a person whose life needed an absolute intervention, who needed understanding, and who could actually work hard for people other than himself when he wanted to. Kageyama Tobio was a _person._ He couldn't believe he was only realizing it now but he couldn't believe he was even realizing it at all. It felt gross, but it also felt right.

When Kageyama had finished cleaning up and had gotten to his feet, the makings of another too-polite goodbye sitting inside of his mouth, Oikawa felt a wave of energy surge through his arms, his spine, and he was getting on his knees. "Tobio?" he called.

Kageyama looked down at him. "What?"

What, indeed. He himself wasn't sure what he wanted to say and why he wanted to say it. Perhaps it was still too early to call and Kageyama could still easily be annoying as he could be endearing, but it felt as though they were taking baby steps towards a better relationship (they hadn't had a legitimate argument in a while; that was something) and he was almost proud of them for that. It probably wouldn't be too weird of him to say; after all, this was part of the plan to switch back to their own bodies. They were doing good for each other, and that deserved acknowledgement, recognition. And a thanks, because what first year would willingly study third year material for no reason other than some other third year was going to fail if he didn't?

But the only thing Oikawa was failing at was words. He swallowed, held up Kageyama's phone. "Have you named yourself on my phone yet?"

Kageyama frowned, his nose scrunching up ever so slightly. "Uh, no? It's still unknown."

"Well, you should name yourself if we'll be regularly texting. See? I named myself 'coolest senpai ever' on your phone."

"Change it."

"What? Why?"

"I wouldn't name you that," Kageyama protested, adjusting his bag strap and inching towards the bedroom door, "it's dumb. And you're not the best senpai ever either."

"You're so mean. And after all I've done for you. Go ahead and save yourself as 'ungrateful brat' on my phone; it's in character."

Kageyama only rolled his eyes and yanked the door open. "I'll see you later, Oikawa-san," he said, slipping through it and then pulling it shut.

Once again, Oikawa was left to the silence of Kageyama's room, in the even bigger silence of Kageyama's home, not alone but too alone all the same. He sank to the floor, resting the back of his head on the edge of Kageyama's high and bouncy bed, wondering how this was ever going to work when it was so hard to be honest, so hard to break the consistency of their shallow words in favour of bringing to the table some more serious, heavy-weighted ones. Perhaps it really was too early to call. There really was just no moving on from middle school when it came to Kageyama after all.

 

* * *

 

All complicated thoughts of forging friendships with younger setters with blueberries for brains long since forgotten, Oikawa awoke that morning with more energy than he had on the day of his final high school volleyball game. It was finally Saturday and, more than the natural relief that students of all ages felt when blessed with the fact, Oikawa was adamant to _finally_ get to talk to his current mother after days and days of—well, not. If Kageyama's information proved to be correct (and if it didn't, that would be an even bigger cause for concern), she would be home all day today, and probably tomorrow as well. He had practice both days, sadly, but their mornings and nights were still as good an opportunity as any, and he sure as hell was going to take it.

There was an evident bounce in his step as he left his room and took on the stair steps, one at a time, and he felt himself physically light up as he inhaled the scent of coffee and freshly-cooked food for the first time since he infiltrated the household. He tightened his hold on the railing in the place of wearing an actual, probably uncharacteristic grin, took the steps three at a time.

Sure enough, the first sight to greet him as he entered the dining area was not an empty and lifeless living space but the table, for once, supporting plates of grilled salmon and bowls of a green-looking miso soup, perhaps laden with spinach. Oikawa could feel the excitement pooling up in his stomach, but even better than the heavenly-smelling food was the elder woman seated behind it all, eyes moving over a newspaper she held up over half her face, awaiting him just as much as breakfast was.

She resembled Kageyama already, even from what little Oikawa could see of her features. Her hair was dark and a good few tufts fell over her forehead. Her complexion seemed minutely fairer than her son’s but her eyes were that same shade of sparkling pale blue, yet also lidded and calm, the underside going dark and marked by lines.

Oikawa swallowed. “Good morning!”

“Good morning,” Kageyama’s mother replied without looking up from her reading.

If this had been Oikawa’s home, the greeting would have been followed up by a line of casual, concerned questions, things like, “Did you sleep well?”, while the television provided background noise and the taste of that sweet, sweet weekend chill, the kind that told Oikawa it would be okay to relax amongst family and friends and that the rest of the house would be doing the exact same thing.

Here, however, only silence followed.

For a while, he forgot about breakfast and that he was supposed to sit down for it. Oikawa remained standing, half of him still expecting even a little bit of conversation and the other half wallowing in the confusion of there being none. But then he caught himself, how stiff his hands were, and abruptly, desperately shook himself back into coherency, staring his current mother down as if the feel of his eyes on her would coax more words out from her mouth, a glance from her own eyes to his.

It didn’t. Oikawa only swallowed again, headed for the refrigerator to get Kageyama’s body some milk (there was a ton of it, much to his repulsion the first time he’d seen the more than ten small cartons), told himself that the chill on his fingertips was because of the appliance and not his own hesitation and nerves.

“Uh.” He couldn’t believe he was struggling with words; he tried to imagine that this was his own mother basically ignoring him on a fine Saturday morning. “How was your week?”

She didn’t respond.

Wow, this milk was truly cold. Oikawa made a face, tried to peer at his mother’s from beyond the cover of the news print. “Uh, mom?”

“Hmm?”

There, a reply. Sort of. Maybe she simply hadn’t heard him earlier. “How—how was your week?”

“Why do you ask?”

The milk was a little too cold and the straw was starting to lose its original shape inside Oikawa’s curled up fingers. This was their first opportunity, their first time to have a legitimate conversation in days, her son’s physical form hadn’t seen her for more than thirty seconds throughout the entire week, Oikawa was supposed to be her son at the moment but he had _no idea_ what she even did for a living, the things that had been happening in her life. “N—nothing, I just want to know!” he cried, clearing his throat, his voice having gotten a touch too high.

For the first time in the history of forever, she looked up at him. Her gaze was as sharp as her son’s but it wasn’t unfriendly, and soon it wasn’t even on him at all. “Hmm, it was fine.”

Oikawa was beginning to understand why Kageyama never said more than a few words at a time under regular circumstances. “Is work busy?” he said immediately, just itching to hear more of his mother’s voice.

“Oh, it is. It always is,” she replied, turning a page of the newspaper. Her eyes never left the text, but before Oikawa could launch into another mundane question that he’d honestly never had trouble asking until this point, she took a breath to speak some more. “What about you? How’s school?”

It was a question his mother never asked him, because she didn’t have to; Oikawa shared enough on his own accord at the dinner table, things about an unfair test question or who fell asleep and was made to read out several pages of text out loud as punishment, and he and his parents never had to bother with small talk.

He was having small talk right now. With _his own mother_. His face soured as he finally punched his deformed straw into the carton of milk. “Oh, it’s—it’s good. School’s good.”

There was so much room to speak, a vast silence begging to be broken even as he sat at the table and she put her paper down and they both began to eat, but he couldn’t find any words, any stories. He wanted to talk about his school day, but it was as blank as a fresh piece of scratch paper, as blank as his mother’s expression as she took a sip from her bowl of soup, and it felt miserable. _He_ felt miserable, and this wasn’t even his real life. His school day was bland, his home life was empty—was there even any place where Kageyama could feel he was actually doing something, speaking, feeling happy?

Practice, Oikawa remembered then. Kageyama’s head and heart were filled with nothing but volleyball and if there was a time for people to hear his voice, to actually feel his presence instead of just see his body, it would be there. Oikawa took a breath as he chewed his fish, stole a glance at his mother and her plain face and her hair barely grazing the crook of her neck, some of the ends sticking out in the most unnatural of places in the same way Kageyama’s did, and swallowed again.

She _had_ to know about Kageyama’s volleyball life, right? It was the one thing Oikawa knew for sure the guy cared about, and he was far too excellent at the sport for it not to be a regular topic of conversation at home. He was going to Tokyo to compete at Nationals in a few weeks, for Pete’s sake. Surely she had to know about that, had to have some opinion on it, had to be proud of her son and his team for achieving what Oikawa’s had never been able to.

But just as he opened his mouth, she opened hers, her eyes on Oikawa’s side of the table. “Oh, you’re done?”

Indeed, his plate and bowl were both empty; in all his restlessness, he hadn’t noticed his food disappear down his throat at all.

“I’ll do the dishes,” she continued, and Oikawa looked up at her, “but can you head out and buy the groceries? I already put the list on the fridge and some money on the coffee table.”

“Ah—“ Oikawa started, no particular sentences sitting on his tongue but all the same just dying to make any sort of noise, anything that might stop how fast things seemed to be moving and leaving him behind, but Kageyama’s mother was already wiping her mouth and uttering a thanks and then rising from the table, and bringing her own utensils and dishes to the sink in the next room.

And Oikawa could do nothing but freeze in his seat, mind as empty as the bowl of soup she carried with her.

 

* * *

 

This was terrible. The most words Oikawa had spoken all day were spoken to himself, his teammates and the cashier at the grocery store coming in second place, even though his own mother was home and Kageyama was now once again seated on his own bedroom floor scratching his head and making faces at Oikawa’s notes. The silence and the tutoring and the _not talking_ were all becoming routine, and it was absolutely terrible.

He was on the floor again as well, left either to his own devices, or to watch Kageyama struggle to comprehend the laws of Physics while also struggling not to ask too many questions, or to simply sit and contemplate life, and he had never been more restless in his life. He felt like an insect, trapped inside a web that didn’t currently house a hungry spider but filled with anxiety all the same, and he wanted nothing more than to wiggle out of the entrapment and scream. He wanted to scream right now. But he couldn’t quite find his voice.

Oikawa shifted, feeling a numb kind of pain in his rear from how often and long he’d been sitting on the floor these past few nights, fingers tapping rapidly on his own knee without his consent, unable to fathom how Kageyama managed to stay at ease with his entire upper body straining itself to get his writing surface within a proper reach. His focus really could be amazing when he was using it properly, and Oikawa wanted so badly to break it (not for the first time, but for a completely different reason now) and do something, talk about something, because all this time the both of them had been working towards not ruining Oikawa’s life without any consideration for the fact that Kageyama’s had been ruined to begin with.

“Are you—uh, tired?” Oikawa asked, hesitantly, disregarding how uncharacteristic the question was. “Do you want to take a break?”

Kageyama’s eyes never left his paper. It was like this morning all over again, except this time, it was a younger boy too occupied to hold conversation and not a mother. “No, I’m good,” was his reply.

And it was the worst possible one; Oikawa frowned, chewed on his lip, tapped his fingernail against his knee even harder, hard enough to hurt. “Well—“ he tried again, the word coming far too quickly out of his mouth, “could I talk to you while you work? It’s—it’s really boring just watching you getting angry at paper.”

He was far too antsy to speak with his normal tones and to use his normal words, but Kageyama didn’t seem to notice. He did, however, look up curiously, his pen stalled over his worksheet. “Uh,” Kageyama said, “it might slow me down a little, but I guess it’s okay. Do you have something you want to talk about?”

“Not really, just—I thought I should get to know you and your family a bit more. You know, for the sake of role-playing?”

“Uh, okay.”

“Great!” Oikawa clasped his hands together, too fast, too loud, just really eager to finally make some progress in this awful, static environment. “So, what does your mother do for a living?”

“She’s a clerk. Or she might be a secretary, I’m not sure. She’s always on the phone and the computer.”

Oikawa didn’t even know that this house had a computer, but even worse than that, Kageyama didn’t know for sure what his mother’s job even was. The information was a little bit frightening. “Why aren’t you sure?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound confrontational.

“She was a clerk before, but she might have gotten promoted. Or—is that even a promotion? Reassigned?” Kageyama scratched the back of his ear with his pen, frown deepening during his moments of uncertainty but not doing much else.

“Okay…well, do you two ever—like, just, spend time together? Put a movie on or something and just relax?”

“No.”

“U—uh, have you ever gone on vacation together?”

“Not recently.”

Oikawa felt personally offended. “Why not?” he demanded.

“Huh?” Kageyama said, finally straightening up from his work and allowing another expression other than indifference to settle on his face. This time, it appeared to be confusion. “I don’t know—she’s busy, I’m busy, and we’re both fine at home anyway.”

“But—but—bonding time?” Oikawa could only say. It probably wasn’t the best time for him to raise his voice, probably not the best topic, but it wasn’t in his nature to hold back and it never had been. And given that the conversations he’d held today could be counted on the fingers of a single hand— _a single hand;_ that had never happened before—his mouth was dry and thirsty and in desperate need to make words, his ears desperate to hear them. “Keeping close? A family that vacations together, stays together?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it goes.”

“Okay, no, it’s not, but—“ He paused, felt himself getting over-excited. Oikawa took a breath, decided on the spot that this discussion was going to be nothing but sincere and out of concern he told himself he needed to have, just one good deed for Tobio-chan and one step closer to getting his body back.

He exhaled, stared at the top of Kageyama’s head because that was the closest thing to the boy’s face that was within his sight. He was bent over Oikawa’s school materials again; Oikawa would seriously be touched if not for the nagging feeling in his gut, one that had been clawing at his insides since yesterday when he’d gotten back from the grocery store and found his mother holed up in one of the rooms, eyes glued to papers she’d laid out on the desk, much like her son was now. “Tobio,” he called, deciding not to add his usual suffix.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know how else to tell you this, so I’ll just get straight to the point,” Oikawa said, and then swallowed. “Your family situation, it’s—it’s not good.”

Kageyama’s hand stalled over his worksheet, and at last he looked up, single eyebrow raised in incredulity, like Oikawa had just told him there was a monster living under his bed.

“I mean, I’m only using the few families I know as reference but—look at you and your mom! You’re literally the only two people living in this house and it’s like you don’t even know each other. The only time you’re ever within ten feet is on the weekends and even then, you don’t talk. I had such a hard time making conversation with her at breakfast and then she sent me out!”

“That doesn’t happen all the time,” Kageyama cut in.

“Okay, that’s good, at least,” Oikawa said, “but then when I got home after practice and groceries she nearly had her face shoved into her work and she didn’t get up until I asked her about dinner. And you don’t even know what her job is right now. What about where she works? Whether she’s in good health? And what does she know about you? Do you two ever talk about school? About _volleyball,_ at least? Does she know you’re going to Nationals?”

“Yes,” Kageyama hissed.

“Does she know what Nationals even means?”

“Well—she did after I told her.”

“Was she proud of you?”

Kageyama blinked. “Probably?”

He dropped his pen and shook his head as Oikawa pursed his lips, opened his eyes a little wider. “What does all this matter again, exactly?” Kageyama asked, the furrow of his brow deeper than it had been earlier.

“Well, for one, I don’t think I’ve never _not talked_ this much since I was in my mother’s womb,” Oikawa said, and then he cringed. “Okay, that—that sounds bad, I shouldn’t have worded it like that, but you get me, right? You lack communication in life. Nobody in your class pays attention to you, you eat alone at lunch when your shrimp isn’t there to haul you with him, and not even your teammates bother to have more than one casual conversation with you per day. Home—home is where you’re supposed to get the love that you don’t get in the outside world, and you’re not—you’re not getting that. It’s no wonder you’re so bad with people and so lonely all the time. I’m just—“

“Wait,” Kageyama said, firm in both his voice and the hand that he was holding up, and Oikawa was led to stop. “You’re telling me you’re stopping me from studying your lessons just so you can make fun of me?”

It was Oikawa’s turn to blink now, to recoil in confusion. “What? No!” he cried. “I’m not making fun of you. This is a real life concern; don’t you want to do something about it?”

“Look, I know you really want to go back to your body and all, but I’m sure you’ll find other good deeds to do for me besides this. My mom and I are fine.”

“That’s not—it’s not _just_ about getting back to my body! You don’t have a family life and I’m here experiencing it, and if it sucks for me, then it has to suck for you too, right?”

“No, it doesn’t, so please just leave it alone.”

“Why are you being so stubborn about it? I’m just trying to help you!”

“Well, I’m fine!”

“But—“

“I’m _fine,_ ” Kageyama gritted out. “No, I guess we’re not as close as other families are, but could you please stop overdramatizing it like it’s a matter of life and death or something? I get that overreacting is kind of your thing—“ Oikawa’s jaw fell “—but just overreact about your own life, not mine.”

“ _Well,_ ” Oikawa began, still overexcited, still genuine, but no longer calm or concerned, a fight or flight reaction, “I’d _love_ to overreact about my own life but, unfortunately, I’m stuck living _your_ shitty one.” He felt his eyebrows knitting together, felt physically incapable of keeping his entire face from forming a scowl the longer he looked upon Kageyama—ungrateful, insufferable. “What, is this how you act towards _everyone_ who just wants to help?”

“Help someone who asked for it,” Kageyama spat out, reclaiming his pen.

But even his dedication to doing Oikawa’s work did nothing for the hostility lingering in the air and inside of Oikawa’s system. So here he was, worrying and overthinking like crazy for the past few days, only for the very object of that worry to get hot-headed and lash out at him for no good reason. This was the person he was supposed to try and understand, to work with, the person he’d actually considered being _friends_ with. Yeah, right. He supposed with all the headache-inducing phenomena he’d been forced to accept this entire week, his better judgment was being thoroughly clogged up. Nobody could be friends with Kageyama, he remembered—King of the Court, emotional quotient of a brick, always thinking about nobody but himself and not even in ways that he should.

He inhaled sharply, nodded slowly as he released the air. “You know what?” Oikawa said, keeping his voice low—all for naught, really; he didn’t figure Kageyama’s mother would care even if she heard her son yelling inside his room. For all he knew, it could be a regular occurrence, just another day in the life of the ridiculous Kageyama family. “I have been trying _so hard_ not to mess things up. I’ve been doing nothing but good. I didn’t yell at you when you dropped the bomb on me and told me I was gonna _fail everything_ with you steering my wheel, and I _don’t_ deserve the kind of _bullshit_ treatment I’m getting from you right now when all I’m trying to do is get us back in the right place.”

Kageyama snorted, kept his eyes on his papers but didn’t read or write on any of them. “Great, thanks, you didn’t yell at me for acknowledging an inescapable fact and being forward about it with you; someone should give you an award.”

Oikawa’s scowl deepened. He bit his lip, took another breath.

“Figures you’d pat yourself on the back so much for doing something decent,” Kageyama continued, briefly glancing up at Oikawa from underneath his lashes and the hair on his forehead. “It’s a pretty big step-up from the usual, huh?”

“Oh, _you’re_ going to talk to me about being decent?” Oikawa countered. “ _You,_ who had an entire team refuse to hit your toss or even play with you and make more of an effort to have you benched than win your game?” Kageyama’s face darkened. “You, with no friends? You, who nobody even likes?”

“Well, at least I’m not some showy, overconfident asshole who goes around feeding off of others feeling bad about themselves just so he can pretend he’s better than everyone else.”

“ _Excuse me?”_

“What? You’re telling me you _don’t_ know how you’re always trying to mess people up and getting all pompous just to make yourself feel better?” Kageyama’s eyes were directly on his now, and there was a dangerous glint in them that Oikawa had never seen before. “Even your so-called ‘friends’ agree that you’re a freak with an awful personality. I’m surprised they even have the energy to put up with you—“

“Shut the hell up! If there’s anyone here who’s always making other people feel bad, it’s you!”

“ _What?”_

“You think you’re completely innocent? Like your scary face and all your yelling and your—‘I don’t give a fuck about anything’ attitude is everyone’s favourite thing to see in the morning? Or anytime? You think that there’s no reason people avoid you like the plague? That when I’m being quote unquote _awful_ to poor little Tobio-chan, it’s just because it’s ingrained in my personality and I was born into the world as a baby with a natural hatred for one Kageyama Tobio in particular?”

Oikawa was remotely aware he was already yelling, but he couldn’t care less. There were far too many words ready to spill out of his mouth. “See, that’s the problem with you. You have no idea how to stop and look outside yourself when you’re fixated on one thing. ‘Oh, look at me, I’m fresh and bright-eyed and I’m gonna get _so_ good at volleyball’—that was all middle school was like for you, and your ball and your own hands were all you ever looked at. You never looked at your team, you never looked at me beyond your little service-obsessed lens and saw how miserable you made me!”

A brief flicker of realization rested on Kageyama’s face, but all too soon it was getting replaced by another disbelieving frown. “You—you’re blaming me for you feeling like shit? I never did anything against you!” he yelled back. “Maybe I am volleyball-obsessed, but that doesn’t mean you can suddenly pin widespread hunger and everything on me. Like it’s _my_ fault you’re so insecure!”

Something snapped inside of Oikawa’s chest.

He felt his fingers trembling, his teeth bearing against each other far too hard, felt himself involuntarily swallow—but his eyes didn’t move. They stared dead ahead, right into Kageyama’s livid but slowly softening ones. Softening, but still fierce, still enraged. He knew his own eyes were the same.

“Insecure, hmm?” he said, only minimally surprised at the turnaround his voice had gone through in the span of seconds. “You should’ve told me that before your annoying little twelve-year old self starting trailing me like some crazy admirer.”

“My mistake, then.” Kageyama’s own calmer, low voice didn’t miss a beat. He snatched up all of the papers he’d scattered on the ground in one fell swoop, crushing some in his too stiff fingers, and stood up. “There was nothing to admire after all.”

 

Even long after the door had shut, Oikawa still found himself seated on the floor, laboured breaths completely audible in the stark silent cage he was required to temporarily call a bedroom. Once again, he was all alone, one potential companion probably stomping his way back to his equally temporary home and the other one doing who knew what, completely unaware of the alien, heavy weight on her son’s chest and shoulders. He tried to will that weight away. What good would feeling bad after an argument with Kageyama do anyway? It was probably a universal truth at this point: that they couldn’t get along, that they didn’t understand each other as well as they understood everyone else, that they were doomed to keep fighting for all of eternity and that was all they would ever do.

But it sucked. They weren’t supposed to understand each other but somehow, Kageyama had managed to hit Oikawa in the places where it mattered even without realizing it, even without meaning to, and though they’d evidently made each other angry, Kageyama had also managed to get Oikawa’s voice to break. He felt weak, small compared to the genius setter he’d always kept at far more than arm’s length, someone whom he firmly believed had been nothing but criminal against him, and again, it was like nothing had changed.

And all that stuff he’d said about his being guiltless, about Oikawa’s being insecure—Oikawa didn’t want to think about the possibility that they were true, but his mind was swimming and flowing to places that stretched beyond his control, and there on Kageyama’s bedroom floor, he felt numb, but also felt his eyes stinging, his lips quivering.

He sucked in a breath, but the moment he allowed his lips to part was the moment of his defeat. His shoulders shook and the corners of his eyes were warmed and wet, and all he could do was silently, desperately clamber onto bed and push his face against the pillow in the hope that he wouldn’t penetrate the once-indomitable silence of this terrible house with his pathetic wailing, that maybe if he screamed enough and fell asleep, he would wake up back where he belonged, safe and loved and happy after an awful nightmare.

 

* * *

 

When he woke up the next morning, not a trace of sadness was left in his body and spirit, all thoroughly chased away by bitterness and anger. He could hear and smell the breakfast in the making downstairs, could hear his phone buzzing on the ground declaring it time to get up and prepare for Sunday practice, but his mood only soured further. What good would it do to get up and see his mother for ten minutes before heading off to a volleyball practice that wasn’t his, when the one that he would do it all for was nothing more than an asshole with no sense of gratitude or any intent to work with him whatsoever?

He could just go back to sleep now, perhaps until the day was done, and not bother with the practice Kageyama cared so much about because at this point, he didn’t deserve anything else, didn’t deserve any more of Oikawa’s help whether he asked for it or not. It would be easy to just half-ass his way through his next few days, let Kageyama’s life fall to shit out of spite and maybe to teach him a lesson about what could happen when he crossed the wrong people, when he overstepped his bounds and thought it was okay to pick people apart and stab them in the side and then just walk away a free man, an absolute saint.

But the more he buried his face in the pillow, trying to fall back asleep and thoroughly ruin Kageyama’s day with a little bit of impunity, the more his foot tapped against the mattress, itching to get on the floor, the more his fingernails dug into his bed sheets, the harder his teeth bit on his bottom lip, the tighter he squeezed his eyes shut and the louder he groaned, until—

No, he couldn’t do it. Ready to offer his mortal soul up for a canonization, Oikawa rolled out of bed, glanced at his swollen eyelids and dead expression in the mirror, rolled his eyes and headed downstairs to start a new, productive day.

And, unbeknownst to him, back at the Oikawa house, Kageyama was already on the floor surrounded by notes and papers and textbooks and a multitude of coloured pens, begrudgingly cramming information into his brain even without having gone downstairs to eat yet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he attacc. but he also protecc
> 
> god let me tell you that argument was not easy to plan. i was drafting the flow of the conversation and i was so hesitant to put some dialogue in because i thought it would be too cruel;; so basically what you just read was the mellowed-down version of the argument. oikawa cries regardless lmao im so sorry i love him i swear, happy birthday bb i’m sorry this had to happen,
> 
> also hey i made a [writing journal](https://diecrotic.dreamwidth.org/)


	8. hide your dream in your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And in your texts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might just be the fastest update i have ever delivered and i am both proud and drowning in the realization that i do not give 2 shits about my real life. that aside, i’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but the fic officially has a chapter count! that’s right! this is officially going to be 16 chapters long! don’t know whether to yay or nay (or neigh) about that fact, but it’s pretty final, I would say. unless some miracle happens and I get extra ideas. I talked about this some in my recently-started [writing journal](https://diecrotic.dreamwidth.org/), and i’ll be posting about fic updates and other #justWriterThings there as well. give it a look, if you’d like!

His next few days were dull. Duller than they had been when Kageyama still came over for tutoring, and it didn’t make any sense. They didn’t talk much, didn’t do anything particularly interesting together, but somehow being together was still far better than being by himself, almost like Kageyama’s presence alone was enough of a helper to make the day a little more interesting. If he were to be honest, he’d half-expected Kageyama to come over Sunday evening like nothing had happened, but the front door remained closed, the house remained still.

And Oikawa hated it more than he hated having screaming fights.

Sunday was a complete and utter disappointment, and Monday morning didn't fare any better either. He didn’t really know what the hell he was being so hopeful for, but his body (it wasn’t really his body, though, and the reminder was only a bigger damper to his mood), after having dressed and readied itself, had automatically brought him on the road to Kitagawa Daiichi, perhaps—again—expecting Kageyama to be there. Ready to talk, to be his casual self, or to exchange homework for both their benefit, at least. But the space they usually stood in by the back wall of the school was empty, and Oikawa certainly wasn’t about to wait for it to be filled up.

This was ridiculous, he told himself. That argument hadn’t been his fault (it was Kageyama’s, surely, for suddenly snapping at him when he was just trying to express his concern—for the first time in his life, mind you. He probably wouldn’t be trying it again) and yet he was the one plagued with guilt, growing impatient for the resolution even though only a record time of a single day had passed. He tried to swallow the feelings down. There was no way he was going to be the one to roll over and cave. He was in the right, he knew. He was too proud for that. And if Kageyama didn’t want any help figuring out everything that was there to be figured out, then Oikawa wouldn't give it to him.

Still, he didn’t have to make much of an effort to frown that day, especially not when he’d managed to forget thoughts of apologies long enough to remember that their communication was the key to the salvation of the rest of his grades for the semester. He’d cringed to himself in English class, then, prayed that Kageyama hadn’t on-the-spot decided to ruin his life out of pettiness, prayed that he could be a genius at things other than volleyball and that Oikawa’s academic career was left in capable hands.

That afternoon, he seriously considered not attending practice again; he felt sick to the stomach, sick of his life, and sick of living Kageyama’s. But his feet took him there anyway, almost as if the body he was inhabiting was still loyal to its previous master and wouldn’t tolerate any sort of betrayal. That was a pretty good explanation, actually. Now if only it were true.

Practice was filled with the usual things. He stayed strictly professional, accepted and gave away a compliment or two, stuck close to Tsukishima and Yamaguchi during water breaks and only briefly glanced at the shrimp, sticking close to his boisterous second year upperclassmen instead. This was another conflict that had yet to be solved, he figured. It was a miracle he was getting away with it at all, probably owing to the fact that Kageyama and Hinata’d had fights as big as this before—or so Yachi had mentioned. Tsukishima was right, however; it was only a matter of time before the increasingly worried upperclassmen would step in for an intervention, concerned about their star players and their own potential to get absolutely butchered at Nationals.

And he was about to be proven right that very afternoon, the minute clean-up had ended.

“Kageyama?” Sugawara called out to him right as he was about to leave the gym.

He stalled a single foot on the stair step, craned his neck to examine the third year’s serious but still accommodating face, and let the others go ahead of him. “Yes, Sugawara-san?” he responded, vaguely recalling that Kageyama didn’t bother with nicknames of any sort.

Sugawara had always struck him as someone capable, reliable, but even he seemed to flounder when it came to the setter that had so easily upstaged him. Oikawa wondered about that sometimes, how he was taking it. He was basically the fulfillment of everything Oikawa had ever feared, but he didn’t seem to bear any hatred for Kageyama, the team’s main setter instead of him, and Oikawa didn’t know whether it was strength, kindness, or naivety.

Then again, Kageyama probably liked Sugawara more than he liked Oikawa. Maybe there was actually a thing or two he could learn from here; not that he cared.

“Just wanted to ask how you’re doing,” Sugawara said after a brief pause, a hum.

So he was going to take the roundabout route for this. Oikawa stepped out of the doorway and into the dark of night, allowed Sugawara to follow after him and the teachers to lock up. “I’m fine,” he said simply.

“Oh, that’s good, that’s good,” Sugawara said, casually patting him on the back. Oikawa nearly frowned, but caught himself and kept his face straight. Sugawara was observably the touchiest of all of Kageyama’s teammates. In fact, he was the only one who’d ever touched Oikawa casually at all. He couldn’t say he liked it. “And you’re feeling good about practice?”

If this is about the toss, just get out with it already, Oikawa didn’t say. “Yes.”

“Okay, well, the thing is—we’re not,” Sugawara said, and then he jumped. “I don’t mean anything bad by that, of course! I just—me and the others have noticed—I mean, how can we not—that you and Hinata aren’t…talking. At all. Did…something happen? If it’s okay for me to ask?”

Actually, Oikawa wasn’t sure. After that one session he’d left early claiming to be sick, it was the shrimp that started sending him weird looks and trying to be extra friendly for no reason until their interactions had dropped altogether, reduced to simply curious looks not exactly shared from afar. “Not really,”  he said. “Tsukishima told me he felt weird around me, though.”

“He does,” Sugawara confirmed. “I’m glad you have a little bit of an idea. I think—this is mostly because of your toss. I mean, you know how much Hinata loves your tosses.” Oikawa wanted to frown again; that could’ve been worded a little differently. “And—Nationals are coming up, and we all need to be at the top of our game if we’re going to get anywhere, and to—to be honest, that’s not going to happen if you two aren’t playing together as well as you usually do. Especially not if you two aren’t playing together _at all._ ”

Sugawara let out a breath, looked up at Oikawa with concerned, grave eyes. “Why aren’t you tossing to him?”

Because he’s not my teammate and it’s not my toss. “Uh.” Because this isn’t my body and this isn’t my life and I really just kind of want to be the filling in a burrito of blankets right now. How he wished he could just let all that out, but if he didn't want to tell Iwaizumi there was no way in hell he was going to tell anyone else. He frowned. “I’m—working on it.”

“Working on it? The toss? Oh—you’re experimenting on something with it?”

“Um, yes.”

“Oh,” Sugawara said, blinking, a new sort of glimmer settling in his eyes. “Come to think of it, you did that at the training camp too, right? While you were still learning the new toss, you refused to have Hinata hit it?”

That was new information, but all Oikawa could say was, “Yes.”

“Well, that’s a little bit reassuring. We didn’t think of that when we talked about it.” Nodding, Sugawara crossed his arms and gazed at the ground, deep in thought. “Huh, okay, well—that’s good to hear. That you’re polishing yourself up some more. That’s really good to hear, but—I just hope you don’t forget your responsibility to coordinate. Not to rush you, or doubt you, or anything like that, but I hope that you get to work on it with Hinata soon. For both your sakes and the team’s, too. You guys are friends, right? You shouldn’t let things like this ruin that.”

“Right,” Oikawa said, wondering whether Hinata could truly be considered Kageyama’s friend in the first place. He _was_ the only one who’d ever sought Kageyama out on his own initiative. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to try and talk to him— _if_ Oikawa ever became so inclined to try and make friends for Kageyama again, of course, after the latter’s hurtful outburst.

“Right!” Several more blows were dealt to his back. Oikawa couldn’t hold back a grunt, but Sugawara was all smiles. “Looking forward to see what you’re cooking up! And to see you sharing it with Hinata, of course. Sorry for the sudden serious talk. Let’s get to the club room before Daichi locks it on us.”

Sugawara settled a hand against his back, led him up the stairs and towards the club room heartily talking all the while, and Oikawa simply let himself be dragged, the magnitude of the concerns flooding up his mind degrading his awareness and ability to listen. There was far too much to solve, he thought, this whole ‘he had no idea what toss everyone was fucking talking about’ problem just one, very severe one, the slowly growing collection of lies he was feeding everyone around him to elude further questioning yet another.

And just like everything else he had on his plate right now, he had no idea how to get to a workaround. He grumbled under his breath, hoping Sugawara wouldn’t hear, about how attractive it was beginning to sound to just bang his head against the wall and be concussed until his soul figured out how to navigate airways.

 

* * *

 

He would’ve given a lot—not everything, but a lot—to have been able to say that their argument had been nothing, that Oikawa hadn’t gotten to him in the slightest, but the warmth on his face and the clenching of his fists as he headed home right after, and his body immediately plummeting to the bed and crushing his nose against the pillow the minute he slammed the door to his room told Kageyama otherwise. It felt like a dozen different emotions were swirling inside of his chest and he had no idea what they even were, let alone how to get rid of them. He’d decided, then, that he would simply head to bed, try and forget, cool his head down and perhaps get a better grasp on things tomorrow when he woke.

Blood-curdling irritation, he supposed, could be considered ‘a better grasp’ on the situation; it was better than feeling everything but knowing nothing at the same time. Sunday morning he’d woken up with his eyebrows furrowed, his fingers tightly curled in on themselves, his nails (longer than what he was used to) digging into his palm and leaving indents. Just the thought of Oikawa and being in his room made him want to smother himself with his covers, or maybe punch something. And yet somehow he’d still managed to haul himself up and find the energy to gather Oikawa’s things and scatter them to the floor and sit amongst them, and work—work for the sake of Oikawa’s grade. Oikawa, who was nothing more than a piece of plastic dislocated from a waste basket.

Sometimes he felt as though he was always too patient regarding the guy. He wondered where both he and his self from three years ago found the strength.

That strength had crumbled Saturday night, no doubt, and it was just a matter of time. Now, even while reading Oikawa’s Modern Literature assignments, his entire being felt hardened, like it was never going to want anything to do with the boy whose body he was inhabiting ever again, even if it did mean he was essentially leaving the entirety of his life and prospects in the hands of a person who hated his guts. It made him nervous, slightly, especially since Nationals were coming up, but there was no way he was going to be the one to come crawling back first, not when he’d been doing all of the adjusting between the two of them up until now.

So he didn’t come over that day, or the next, or the next. He didn’t bother making any stops at Kitagawa Daiichi either, too wary of an accidental, misplaced encounter with Oikawa that might just lead to demands for apologies or, even worse, more arguing. He kept his distance, Oikawa kept his, and it was probably going to drive them both insane at some point, Oikawa not being able to monitor his academic progress and Kageyama not being able to check whether he was even attending practice, but he simply gritted his teeth all the while, tried to remain steadfast in his stubbornness.

Oikawa did the same, and at this point, Kageyama wasn’t sure whether they couldn’t get along because they were different or just far too alike.

It was Tuesday now, three days after the tearing of a rift in his and Oikawa’s partially-stable routine, and Kageyama had somehow settled into one of his own. He stayed around people—on weekends, his family; on weekdays, his peers—and did what they expected of him, and the minute he found himself alone he would whip out a notebook and try to absorb its contents, the act becoming almost impulsive at this point. It was still difficult, though, his mind tiring more often than it did when he was using it for volleyball, and so Monday afternoon he’d decided he deserved a breather in the form of a visit to Seijoh’s volleyball club’s practice, did the same today as well.

More than the advantage that watching next year’s rival team polish up the weapons they would be using when they fought Karasuno again gave, Kageyama thoroughly enjoyed watching the boys of Aoba Johsai practice simply because of how innately  _enjoyable_ it was. It was refreshing, almost nostalgic, just being in the sweaty, adrenaline-filled environment he’d gotten so accustomed to over the years, one that he hadn’t felt in his own high school gym in a while, on account of Youth Camp and, well, this soul-swap nonsense. He couldn’t believe how much he already missed it.

He figured that Oikawa must have missed it too, because even though the body he was in technically still had permission to step inside a gym without being an intruder, playing with Kageyama’s teammates was different from playing with his own, inside his home school’s larger gymnasium, tossing to people he actually cared about. A twinge lingered in his chest, but only briefly, his bitterness chasing away any pity faster than he could recognize its presence.

“See you again tomorrow, Oikawa-san!” some of the team members, now cleaning up the net, had called out to him once practice ended and he began to head out. He tried his hand at a small smile, nodded, and waved.

Volleyball kind of was like medication, he realized as he walked home alone, Iwaizumi having long since left him claiming to have a lot of homework to do. He would sit in the gym for a few hours and find that he once again had it in him to act happy, but the minute he left he would be all deep frowns and biting thoughts, Oikawa’s meddlesome nature and words piercing his brain and heart once again and creating holes deep enough for aggravation to start pouring back inside of him. And this time, with no books or conversations to distract him, there were questions that came with the emotion.

What gave him the right to start telling Kageyama what was wrong in his life, for starters. As far as anyone was concerned, Kageyama was completely satisfied with the way he lived, so how did he think it was necessary for him to start intervening, _schooling,_ like any of it was his business? Kageyama refused to believe that any of it was out of actual concern, the major turnaround Oikawa’d undergone immediately after Kageyama had refused his help a pretty good indication that he didn’t truly care about what it was the latter wanted. All that was left to boil it down to his awful attitude, as usual, to suppose that he truly did get a kick out of acting like he was in the right, telling people what to do, and then throwing temper tantrums when things didn’t go the way he expected them to.

Maybe with volleyball or school-related things, maybe it would still be tolerable. But Kageyama’s family life was—not exactly sacred, not exactly secret—off-limits, far from the big picture, _too_ far from anything that Oikawa and his busybodied hands were allowed to touch. He wasn’t a counselor; he couldn’t just up and decide what was and wasn’t right for a family based on what he had. Like just because _his_ family life was oh, so perfect Kageyama’s had to be too, and had to be changed effective immediately like there weren’t a million other things that needed to be done first.

He was just beginning to analyze exactly what it was that gave people the tendency to overreact as he stepped into the entrance hall of Oikawa’s home, getting ready with his half-hearted declaration of arrival, when another voice resounded nearby.

“Tooru,” said Oikawa’s mother. “Could you come here for a little bit?”

Any and all thoughts about other people effectively forgotten, Kageyama paused, took off his shoes, and then headed for the living room door immediately to his right. His mother and father of the moment were both present, seated before the television but not watching it. The wall clock above them read 8:24 PM.

“Where have you been?” his mother asked. His father didn’t look at him.

“Uh, I stayed late at school to watch the volleyball practice.”

“Why?”

Kageyama blinked. “Uhh, because it’s…fun?”

“And don’t you have homework and studying to do?”

“I did some during lunch. And I was planning to do the rest here at home.”

His mother gave him a blank stare, and his father still wasn’t looking at him. “Tooru, sit down.”

He felt his grip on his bag strap tighten, but he approached the only other couch in the room and sat himself down, setting his bag by his feet. He had no idea what was going to happen, and he wanted to know but also didn’t at the same time.

The look on his mother’s face was a great contributor to that fact. She was normally relaxed, every day when she talked him down at breakfast and gave him his lunch, but right now her lips were pulled downward and she was taking deep breaths, as if it wasn’t Kageyama with more of a right to try and calm himself during a stressful situation. “You’re not…you’re not still considering volleyball as your future career choice, are you?”

Kageyama physically felt all the warmth and colour on his skin drain. “What?” he asked, after a nervous, startled pause.

“You do really well in school. You’re one of the top students in your grade. Hajime-kun even says that you’re studying harder than you ever have before, and that’s good—we’re really proud of you, dear. It just means that you can take this seriously if you really want to."

She paused, frown deepening. "But why are you still so hung-up on volleyball?”

Everything suddenly felt cold. Kageyama let his lips part, but no words could come out of them.

“It’s a good club, yes, and it’ll look good on your college application since you were captain in middle school and high school; they’ll know you have good people and leadership skills. But as a career choice? You, a volleyball player by profession? Why would you want that for yourself?”

That was the dumbest question Kageyama had ever heard. “But—“ he tried. “But I’m good at volleyball.”

His mother wasn’t impressed. “Yes,” she said, though she didn’t sound convinced; what the hell? “Just like your brother was excellent at baseball and your sister was excellent at tennis. They both loved their club activities, but when it came down to it, they were able to give them up to pursue better, more _stable_ careers for the sake of their future. And look at them now: your brother’s working for a multi-national company and supporting his family _very_ well, and your sister’s graduating from her business degree in Tokyo. Don’t you want to be like them? Be that successful?”

Kageyama, quite honestly, didn’t give a fuck about what Oikawa’s siblings were doing. He blinked, shook his head, stared his mother down. “I—I could be that successful playing volleyball,” he said.

“ _Tooru._ ” Kageyama jumped; Oikawa’s father kept his eyes on the television, rubbed his hand over his face. “You’re completely missing my point. There is _no_ stable future in pursuing volleyball as a career! What would you be doing for the rest of your life then? Appearing on TV, chasing after a ball? Running and sweating and either getting a trophy or nothing at all? _For the rest of your life?_ Until your knee gives out and you’re no longer popular or useful and you’re forced to retire? And then what? What’ll you do then? Starve? What would your contribution to society have been, entertainment? Momentary relief? Representing Japan in those Olympics maybe once? Wasting people’s money? Is that what you really want?”

He felt stiff, frozen, eyes too wide and fingers too twitchy. This woman, Oikawa’s mother, Oikawa the amazing volleyball player, best setter in the prefecture’s _mother,_ was telling her son that he would go hungry, that he would be a useless citizen of the nation, that he would be a waste of time and resources by choosing to do what he loved most. And Kageyama didn’t understand; not one bit.

Volleyball wasn’t like that. It was nothing like she described at all. It wasn’t just appearing on television for an hour and chasing a ball and getting a trophy. It was sensation after sensation: entering the heat of the court, your shoes squeaking on the polished wood; the bouncing of the balls against the floor resonating with your heartbeat; tightly-squeezed bodies huddled together, serious or laughing, ready for anything; the adrenaline of a whistle blowing, of watching a strong serve sailing over your head and colliding with another player’s experienced arms; the feel of the rubber against your fingertips as you toss it up with perfect timing, in the perfect spot; the hard smack as it collides with your teammate’s palm and then later, the opposite court’s floor; the grin that pulls on your cheeks when you score; the hi-fives, the cheers from the bench and the stands, cries of “One more!” and “Nice kill!” and “All right!” reverberating in your ears until nothing else did; the joy, the anguish, the panic, the _pride—_

It was everything to Kageyama. Everything. And it couldn’t be anything else to Oikawa either, no matter how much money he could make or how successful business people were while half the time he would come home from a game empty-handed. Empty-handed, physically, perhaps. But never totally.

He took a breath, felt his eyes narrow as he examined his mother’s pleading face. “Have you ever seen me play?”

She sighed, clutched at her temple. “Yes, your father and I went to one of your games in middle school, remember?” Kageyama’s entire being shrieked in disbelief; Oikawa’s playing in middle school was _nothing_ compared to what it was now. How could she tell him all these downing, incorrect things without knowing what he was even like when he played? “You were very good.” _You wouldn’t know that._ “But please—try and understand where I’m coming from, and think it through a little better. You have a month until entrance exams and two months until graduation. Think about what’s best for you, like I always have.”

With that as her parting message, she stood up and headed upstairs, shaking her head as she went, leaving Kageyama only with his muddled thoughts and too-stiff posture.

It was one thing, he thought, to have a mother who didn’t bother coming to the games—his own was the same—but to have one that outright stood against volleyball? Something that Oikawa excelled at, topped at even, and obviously wanted for himself—enough to degrade the profession altogether in favour of the generic ones his siblings had apparently chosen for themselves? Kageyama didn’t know anything about how other families worked, but he did know that if he had any brothers or sisters, he wouldn’t want his life exactly like theirs. He certainly wouldn’t want them compared.

Whether they were good at other sports and managed to let go didn’t matter. Oikawa—Tooru, Kageyama corrected—wasn’t his brother or his sister, and he was _really good at volleyball._ So good that he nearly single-handedly defeated smaller teams with his serves, so good that even Ushiwaka who’d played representing all of Japan would rather have him as an ally than as a foe, so good that the entirety of Kageyama’s twelve-year old court life had been dedicated to watching him, three years later only a little less so, and his parents didn’t _know._ They didn’t know, and so they didn’t care that Oikawa would be wasting all his potential by choosing any other path. All Kageyama had to do was let them know.

But why stop there? Kageyama would let his parents know. He would let Oikawa’s siblings know. The entire Aoba Johsai, the entire prefecture.

Perhaps maybe even all of Tokyo.  
  
“Do the right thing, Tooru,” came Oikawa’s father’s voice eventually, his eyes glued to the television, watching the hunter onscreen shoot an unsuspecting deer and then pose for a picture next to its bloody corpse.  
  
Now _that_ was an order Kageyama could comply with. All anger from the past three days packed up and moved out, he stood up, clutched at his phone, tried to remember everything he learned about holding proper conversation in the last few days of playing the champion, and fled upstairs to his room.

 

* * *

 

Another regular day, still no toss. That was the only thing running in Oikawa’s mind the entire practice come Wednesday afternoon, no other interventions from concerned seniors needed to remind him just what a mess he’d gotten himself into and how it was going to affect what was a once in a lifetime opportunity for Karasuno high school. And the weird thing was: he was concerned himself. Maybe not enough to push him to crawl back on his own doorstep and beg for his body’s forgiveness, but enough to feel discomfort, whether on the court or no, enough to entertain the thought.

Now it was evening and he was all alone _again_ and his mind had so much room to go wandering off to places where it didn’t need to, places that made him feel like a speck of dust floating around in space with no use or merits. Sugawara’s roundabout counselling rang in his ears. Hinata’s annoyingly expectant face blinded his vision. They were two different stimuli, but similar both in intent and in effectiveness. Kageyama’s phone was now in his hands, tightly gripped, probably leaving marks on his palm, and he could do nothing but keep it there.

Oikawa groaned as he laid himself flat on Kageyama’s bed and stared up at the ceiling, numerous words but not a whole lot of comprehensible sentences filling his brain. He’d been the first to apologize (sort of) after that first little spat they had by the dumpster and so he shouldn’t have to do it again. And even if he did decide to, what the hell was he going to say? ‘I’m sorry I want you to have a better relationship with your mother’? That was both invalid and untrue, only reinforced the fact that he shouldn’t be the one to give in this time.

But he glanced at the phone, and it seemed to stare back. Waiting. He cringed and set it back on the bed.

He’d thought about it a little yesterday, what he could possibly say that would make Kageyama at least come over for tutoring again. Inevitably, the thought spree had brought him back to Saturday night, back to those words that hung in the air, that cut like knives after Kageyama had so effortlessly launched them at him, and though they still stung like nothing Oikawa’d ever felt before, he tried to keep his reason above his emotions, tried to deal with them like he would a frustrating situation during a match against Shiratorizawa, tried to make them a reference point for how to improve—if not himself, then at least the way he interacted with Kageyama.

That wouldn’t work, though, he’d decided right as he fell asleep Tuesday night. If this was going to work, Oikawa would adjust, but Kageyama would have to too; they were both setters in body and heart, anyway—easily adaptable, essential to reading and directing the flow of the game.

He groaned again. It seemed like a sound judgment to come to, but this wasn’t a volleyball game. It was a game of some other sort, one where he understood neither the rules nor his rights and privileges as a player. The large and small-scale objectives were clear, but he didn’t know how to get to them. And it felt like he was on the field alone, the only other player somewhere he couldn’t see, maybe taking a break from playing, maybe quitting altogether.

His stomach couldn't help but sink at the thought, but before it could plummet to rock bottom, his phone buzzed in his hand.

Startled, Oikawa sat up, his insides all performing their own little somersaults as vibrations rang against his skin, turning his spine cold. He stared at the device, swallowed, thought hard, tried to fight down the loud beating of his heart. It could be nothing, he knew, could easily just be Hinata with another awful joke or Azumane with another chain letter, could be that he was getting worked up over something trivial.

But that wasn’t what he wanted, he knew, nor was that what he was (so heavily, anxiously, excitedly) expecting. He sucked in an inhale, lit the screen up, squinted and held his breath and—

> **coolest senpai ever [9:21 PM]  
>  ** Hello

—forgot to let it out, forgot to even change his face as he plastered his eyes to the characters: plain, boring, underwhelming.

Absolutely incredible.

Oikawa wanted to applaud but he felt like his arms would fall away from their hinges if he even tried to move, felt like his bodily systems were debating whether to enter a fit of mass hysteria from the nerves or to deflate like a balloon. Leave it to Kageyama to render Oikawa absolutely speechless with a single word, reduce him to something akin to a pile of goo, only sentient and filled with confusion.

To utter a simple ‘hello’ after five days of complete and utter silence was as up Kageyama’s alley as it was incredibly awkward, but somehow, the word still made Oikawa nervous. Like it was staring at him, prodding at him, judging him like it alone could tell that he was this close— _this close_ —to sending the exact same thing as some sort of starter to his inevitable apology. He could almost feel Kageyama’s presence in the strokes, and it was comforting and disturbing at the same time, in a way only Kageyama could manage.

He was glad for it.

But there was no way he was going to give Kageyama the satisfaction of knowing that Oikawa had been a torn mess for the past few days, definitely not. He huffed, stared petulantly at the screen as if it were Kageyama bearing witness to his paraded indifference, waited a good five minutes before replying ( _he needs to know I’m busy and have a life, of course_ ), used that time to conjure up the most passive response possible, a mask to cover the fact that he’d been but a hair away from opening their conversation up and being the one to send in the first incredibly painful hello: 

> **Me [9:26 PM]  
>  ** what

He scrambled backward on his bed, leaned against the headboard, and hugged the phone against his chest. That would probably do.

Kageyama’s reply was so quick, too quick, almost mechanical.

> ****coolest senpai ever [9:26 PM]**   **  
> **** Did you change your name on my phone yet? **  
> **

And it was downright awful.

> **Me [9:27 PM]**    
>  if this is your idea of small talk it’s not very good

This time, a good two minutes passed with no response, and Oikawa cringed, wondered if he’d overstepped his bounds or snapped too hard. He wasn’t sure either, when and how it became such a knee-jerk reaction for him to be so aggressive when it came to Kageyama all the time, but whatever the source, whatever the reason, if they were going to stop having explosive fights, then he was going to have to stop being so snarky all the time.

Relief flooded through his veins when the phone buzzed once more.

> **coolest senpai ever [9:30 PM]** **  
> **Sorry.  
>    
>  **coolest senpai ever [9:30 PM]** **  
> ** I actually wanted to apologize.

The message was like a shot in the heart, an obstruction to his breathing. He didn’t think he could believe it minutes ago but here the evidence was, illuminated in the bright evening light: Kageyama truly was texting to apologize. He was going to apologize, Oikawa echoed in his mind, was going to open the floor for Oikawa to apologize and for them to start talking again and for them to be okay. They were going to be okay, and it didn’t take an eternity and a half for them one of them to work to make it okay.

And the one one who first felt that dire need to make everything okay, to adjust, had been, not Oikawa, but Kageyama—and somehow, that made Oikawa feel light. Maybe Kageyama was still in the game after all, maybe he hadn’t left Oikawa all alone, maybe they could even start learning the rules together.

The apology itself hadn’t come yet however. More eagerly than he had moved in the last hundred hours, Oikawa shifted so he was sitting more comfortably in bed, stared at the phone like it was his master about to give him a treat, tried to remind himself not to be so excited and yet somehow ignoring his own instructions more thoroughly than he’d ignored anything else.

> **coolest senpai ever [9:31 PM]** **  
> ** For yelling, mostly. Not so much for the things I said, since they were kinda true but still.

Well, that ruined it. Oikawa frowned.

> **coolest senpai ever [9:31 PM]** **  
> **There are better ways to say things and I shouldn’t have gotten so mad when you were just trying to help.  
>    
>  **coolest senpai ever [9:32 PM]** **  
> ** Sorry.

And then he rolled his eyes. Kageyama was as genuine as ever, no matter what the medium. But for whatever reason, he wasn’t mad—not even close, felt like he couldn’t be. He kept his eyes on the last word, and then moved to reread the ones before, and the ones before, and made a face, shrugged to himself. _Fair enough._

> **Me [9:32 PM]** **  
> ** same

A good minute passed before the next message. Oikawa wanted to laugh.

> **coolest senpai ever [9:33 PM]** **  
> ** What?

Then he did laugh.

> **Me [9:33 PM]** **  
> ** to everything you just said. same.

Another minute.

> **coolest senpai ever [9:34 PM]** **  
> **That’s your idea of an apology?  
>    
>  **Me [9:35 PM]** **  
> **are you trying to start another fight?  
>    
>  **coolest senpai ever [9:35 PM]** **  
> **No  
>    
>  **Me [9:35 PM]** **  
> **fine you ungrateful brat I’m sorry  
>    
>  **Me [9:36 PM]** **  
> **also for yelling  
>    
>  **Me [9:36 PM]** **  
> **are you happy now  
>    
>  **coolest senpai ever [9:36 PM]** **  
> ** Sure

And that was that, probably. It wasn’t heart-felt in the least. It almost didn’t seem like a proper apology. But for now, it would do. If anything, he was even more grateful than he would be if Kageyama had shown up with a teary-eyed face and make-up chocolates (though that didn’t sound too bad either); it was easier this way, when things were casual, when they kept things from escalating to levels they weren’t yet ready to handle. They were going to have to deal with that someday but it was fine for the moment, this moment, a moment to repair their ship after a storm all the while bickering about what material better to use so it didn’t break so easily next time.

How he got all that after one measly, poorly-handled conversation was beyond him. All he knew was that homework would get done again, studying could be monitored again, conversations would be had again, and Kageyama would be in his life again, to be the worst possible Player 2 to a game he still didn’t want to be playing, but there again. And, quite amazingly, he was pleased.  
  
Another message popped up. He narrowed his eyes at it.  


  
  


>   
>  **Me [9:37 PM]** **  
> ** By the way your mom talked to me a little earlier

It probably wasn’t one of Kageyama’s best ideas, sending Oikawa this message right after they’d so hastily made up through text, but it was just another phase in the plan. One he’d so feverishly constructed in roughly twenty-four hours: twelve for conceptualization, another twelve for conditioning. He sat by Oikawa’s computer, the Videos folder open and displaying all of Oikawa’s match recordings, a video-editing software Kageyama had only learned to use the previous night minimized on the dock and waiting to be clicked on. Briefly, his eyes found a spare notebook lying next to his table lamp, once-empty, now home to a good few and yet the most important e-mail and mailing addresses he would ever encounter in his life.  
  
The reply came a little while later.

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:39 PM]** **  
> ** about what?

Kageyama had to take a breath before he started typing.

> **Me [9:39 PM]**  
>  Your future career choice.

When he’d first planned this entire text encounter, he’d predicted that Oikawa’s reply to that one message would be lightning quick, slow and evasive, or wouldn’t come at all. A mere ten seconds after he’d pressed send, the ding of the phone echoed throughout the room.

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:39 PM]**  
>  don’t mind it

He blinked at the reply.

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:39 PM]**  
>  and I don’t wanna talk about it either I’m cutting off this conversation here

Well, this was unexpected. Kageyama frowned, bit his lip, hesitantly pressed the keys.

> **Me [9:40 PM]**    
>  Why hasn’t she gone to any of your games since middle school? 
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:40 PM]**  
>  shut up I’m serious

He could almost hear Oikawa spitting the sentence out at him, in that uncharacteristic and mildly terrifying hostile voice of his. Kageyama paused, rested his elbows on his thighs, and exhaled through his nose. Plan A was one that relied on Oikawa’s input on the matter, he reminded himself, but clearly, he wasn’t going to get it. That just meant he was going to have to go with Plan B.

That was okay. He kind of like Plan B better anyway.

> **Me [9:41 PM]**  
>  Okay. I’m sorry.

He set his phone down on the desk, opened up the video-editing application and searched through the finder of videos to import, examining each game title and letting visualizations flood into his head—of Oikawa and everything he had done well or borderline perfect in each and every match his eyes scanned through. He licked his drying lips, dragged a video of Seijoh’s match against Oomisaki into the timeline.

But then his fingers twitched away from the mouse, his mind brought back to his schoolbag, sitting feet away from his desk and housing his study materials, all of which he’d left idle in the day that had passed, his focus far too centered on orchestrating communication with Oikawa. The bag and everything in it seemed to call out to him, seemed to scream about Oikawa’s grades and his tests, seemed to beg for him to care.

He jumped at the sudden, unexpected sound of Oikawa’s ringtone.

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:43 PM]**  
>  it’s fine. I’m not mad either just so you know

Kageyama straightened up. He stared at the text—looked at each word, and then at the computer, and then at his hours and hours left of workload—and then decided that he did. He did care, truly did. And because he did, he fixed his gaze on the screen, set his hand over his mouse, pulled the notebook of addresses and his freshly-bought blank CD closer to his work station.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT]
> 
>  ~~oikawa has a mac desktop~~ there’s a new oikage event taking place on tumblr soon! it’s the [OiKage Big Bang](http://oikagebigbang.tumblr.com/)! i didn’t know what a big bang was until this came up and needless to say, i love oikage and have already signed up. you have a few days left to sign up, so if you’re curious or interested (and you’re here, so you must love oikage as much as i do, and so you MUST be curious at least), go and explore the official blog! and yes it’s my moral obligation to update and append an advertisement for an event everytime one comes up. it’s an excellent motivation, mind you.
> 
> also, this may or may not be part of the psa, but i think writing kageyama so much has been making me crave milk lately. binge-bought some at the supermarket last weekend and it’s the happiest i’ve felt in a while. i am very excited to drink all of it.


	9. from the bottom of ordinariness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they talk about volleyball. Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WROTE THIS INSTEAD OF WRITING FOR THE BIG BANG AND I FEEL GU ILTY BUt here, have an update. one so overdue it gave me several crises. apologies for that but i've been so busy these days that thinking about my itinerary makes me want to throw up sometimes. my mental state does not help with this.

Contrary to what Sugawara probably had in mind yesterday afternoon, his and Oikawa's little after-practice talk only seemed to make things worse. Oikawa wasn't sure how often Kageyama's upperclassman and his partner-in-crime (at least, on the court) actually spoke, but he had a feeling Hinata's constantly looking over at him during practice didn't come without reason.

If the shrimp thought he was being subtle or lowkey in any way, he was sadly mistaken. His hair was no doubt the brightest thing in the sun-lit room and it already wasn't hard to see it whipping around in the first place, but now he had a different sort of face on—expectant, hungry, impatient, just plain antsy—and it wasn't the sort that Oikawa took to liking. More than annoying him (seriously, would it kill the guy not to play with his fingers like that?), it bothered him. He'd let slip through Kageyama's mouth enough terribly-crafted excuses and the closer Nationals drew, the greater the pressure would be for him to start showing, to all his teammates that were counting on him, that he was just as ready as they were.

But he still didn't know what his own toss was, and now that he'd attached a reason to his not practicing it in public, asking someone else how to do it was officially out of the question. He stole a brief glance at Sugawara, hoping his brow didn't furrow with concern when Sugawara's did.

The situation was getting increasingly hard to ignore, Oikawa decided as he finished another tossless practice, another afternoon filled with people probably gossiping about him amongst themselves or in their individual, prying minds. He headed for the club room in silence, got dressed and packed his things up in silence, no eye contact or anything even when he'd hurried off with a brief goodbye to the rest of the assembly, the only thing on his mind pulling out his phone and texting the only person who would probably be able to help.

Asking Kageyama for help—Oikawa wanted to snort aloud at the thought. He'd lunged head-first into this little charade of theirs hoping it would end long before he'd have to entertain the very notion, because how lame would it be for him to be the one in need of his stupid underclassman's aid, but ten days had passed since he'd last gone to sleep in his own bed. Ten painful, excruciating days, and if they didn't switch back on any one of those days then there was no reason for them to, all of a sudden, today or tomorrow. And he couldn't just keep waiting. Kageyama definitely wasn't.

And so, with a heavy lump settled in his throat as he dragged his feet home, he sent a text.

> **Me [7:44 PM]  
>  ** tobio i need to talk to you about your toss

He clutched at the phone as he walked, jamming his hands in his pockets to shield his already gloved skin from the chilly winter air, waiting for it to vibrate all the while. He honestly hadn't expected to be kept waiting—after all, what could Kageyama be so busy with that he would fail to hear his own phone?—but he made it five blocks, ten blocks, and then even more blocks away from Karasuno and didn't feel a thing, got no response whatsoever. He took a breath, simply kept walking.

It was but a street corner away from his house that he felt the buzz tingle against his palm, and he lit his screen up, never mind that flake after flake of snow covered every inch of his head and his shoulders as he stopped to examine it.

> **coolest senpai ever [8:04 PM]  
>  ** My toss?

Oikawa made a face, would have jammed his thumb against the reply button if the phone hadn't buzzed again.

> **coolest senpai ever [8:04 PM]  
>  ** Oh shit

An incoming call flashed before his face.

"Hello?" Oikawa said into the phone.

"Oikawa-san," came the panicked voice on the other line, along with a considerable amount of familiar background noise, "how have you been tossing to Hinata up till now?"

"You're only wondering about this now?" Oikawa demanded.

"I forgot!"

"Well, I've been tossing to him normally."

"And he's okay with that?"

"It's…" Oikawa hesitated. He was still out on the road and the chilly air was starting to breech even the thick fabric of his winter coat. "It's a long story. I'll tell you more when we meet in person. Right now, I just—everyday feels like your entire team wants to pounce on me and tell me to get my shit together and just do the toss before Nationals comes, and I can't take any more of them staring at me when they think I won't notice."

"Why didn't you try asking them what it was?"

"Oh, yeah, that would've been a great idea. 'Hey, Sawamura-san, how do I do my own special move again?'"

"They didn't question you about it? About you not doing it?"

"Your other setter senpai eventually did; I just told him I was polishing it or something."

"Oh. Well, no wonder he believed you." Kageyama sighed, fell silent. "If I tell you about it, do you think you'll be able to do it?"

"A little bit better than while I _don't_ know about it."

"Okay, fine." Again, Kageyama paused, and the background noise came to an abrupt halt. Phone static filled Oikawa's ears. "The toss I send to Hinata falls."

Oikawa blinked, shot a confused glance at the sky. "Don't all tosses fall?"

"I mean—not the normal kind of fall. I send it up as fast as I do with the old tosses he used to close his eyes for, and I still aim for where he's going to swing exactly, but instead of letting it pass his point of impact, I kill the momentum right there, right where he's going to hit it. It stops for a while and then falls down right there instead of moving more to the side. I started doing it after he said he wanted to open his eyes for our usual quick."

He'd talked to Kageyama about that outside of Takeru's volleyball school, Oikawa remembered. It was one of the last places he'd ever expected to see a disgruntled genius setter and his initial reaction had been unrefined, at best, but he could still distinctly remember Kageyama's indifference towards paying Hinata's intent to grow any attention, could still remember the advice (if it could even be called that) he'd given.

So Kageyama had ended up adjusting yet again after all. That came as a surprise. Maybe the shrimp really was good for him.

But more than that, and more than how gross his last thought had sounded, the toss stopped and fell. It stopped right before the spiker's hand and fell straight down, straightafter. That would be easier to hit than the kind that travelled in an arc, no doubt—something that could give mediocre attackers like Hinata more of an edge, more options, and less to worry about in the middle of his attack. But at the same time, it put all of the load on the setter's shoulders, gave Kageyama the burden of knowing where exactly Hinata would run, with all his sudden switches and unpredictability, what his exact point of impact was going to be, and of controlling _exactly_ how far the ball would go, even while sending it up as quickly as possible.

And they'd been performing the move comfortably, effortlessly, even during the Spring Highs.

"That is…" No, Oikawa wasn't about to say incredible, certainly wasn't about to say _genius._ "Actually pretty smart," he said instead, finally remembering to continue walking home even while visualizing being able to perform the same move without batting an eyelash, and he frowned. "How the hell am I supposed to do that, though? I don't have your thing—your freaking—pinpoint accuracy, whatever."

"I don't think it's necessary. If you work with Hinata on it enough, you should get the hang of it."

_Easy for you to say._ "I can't work on it with him just like that. I haven't even tried it! It's going to fail over and over again and they're all just going to get worried they've lost their ace in the hole."

"But Azumane-san is the ace."

"That's not wh—you know what, never mind."

There was another pause; Oikawa hoped that it meant Kageyama was thinking. "How about—how about we practice it together first? I could show you how I do it and you could try and toss to me?"

The suggestion had him grimacing. It was one thing to meet up with Kageyama for tutoring but to meet up and be the one being tutored? And tutored in volleyball, about tossing, no less? It made him sick to the stomach, made him feel like perhaps he'd already been surpassed after all. How annoying of Kageyama to have such moves within his ever-growing repertoire. And the fact that Oikawa didn't only made things ten times worse.

Still, he sighed. "When, where, and what time?"

"Um, how about tom—wait." Silence, and then some paper ruffling. "Um, I think Saturday would be better."

Too cold and impatient to wonder what kind of plans Kageyama had on a Friday afternoon, Oikawa pushed his house key into the doorknob and twisted. "Okay. I'll ask to leave practice a little earlier for some individual work. I'm sure Sugawara would back me up if I asked him to. Should I go there, to my house?"

"Uh, no, that's probably not a good idea. I'll come over to mine."

"All right." Oikawa let himself into the hallway, drank in the scarcely warmer air that flooded the place. "I'll see you then."

"Yeah, okay. Have a good night."

"Mm."

He hung up, gripped the phone so that the plastic dug into his skin, definitely didn't feel something heavy and throbbing in his chest or confusion tugging at the corners of his lips and pulling up and down, at the thought of having to play volleyball with Kageyama for the first time in about four years.

 

* * *

 

Saturday had come and gone far too fast for comfort, Oikawa thought as he shrugged his training clothes off and wiped himself clean of sweat, and no progress had been made whatsoever. He sighed. He'd by lying if he said he didn't at least try and get the toss right without Kageyama's help; images of yesterday's practice wherein he'd discreetly tried to perform the special toss with Hinata, waiting for the shrimp to tell him that he'd gotten it right, were still fresh inside his mind. And yet the entire time, Hinata's interactions with him were nothing but perfunctory, and everyone was still sending him worried glances.

It took all the power he had not to glare back at them, to apologize for not having been born a tossing prodigy.

Practice today technically wasn't over yet, but like he'd told Kageyama, he'd asked permission to leave a little earlier than everyone else, clearly putting emphasis on the fact that it was for personal and private practice, and Sugawara clearly being within earshot when he'd told the coach was definitely just a coincidence. It had sailed smoothly from there, as expected. Sugawara had smiled at Ukai in that way that he does, the kind that made you want to trust him regardless of what he was saying, and just like that, Oikawa was jogging back to the clubroom by himself, home free.

Now all that was left was to head back home, find his body there waiting for him, and finally learn this toss so that everyone around him could calm the hell down. Of course, there was still the matter of getting his soul back inside his body so that none of this would even be necessary, but he didn't even want to think about how much of a lost cause that was at the moment.

Now out of his practice shirt and in one of Kageyama's better tracksuits (the reddish one was absolutely hideous; days ago he'd wondered whether Kageyama would notice if he set it on fire), he slung his bag over his shoulder, phone secured inside his hand should Kageyama have anything to say before they got to the main bulk of their endeavour that afternoon. Oikawa lit up the screen in case he already had.

Surprisingly, the notification screen wasn't empty, but none of the four— _four._ That wasn't a number Oikawa had seen before—messages were from the contact 'coolest senpai ever'. Oikawa narrowed his eyes, clicked on the text at the top of the stack.

> **Komori Motoya [8:15 AM]  
>  ** hey Kageyama! it's your birthday today right? happy birthday! Kiyoomi says congratulations too!

Oikawa blinked, reread the text four more times before rubbing his eyes and reading again. 

_Happy birthday,_ it said, and he felt his eyebrows furrow as he closed out of the messaging application and switched to the calendar instead. Today was the twenty-second of December, but the date rang no bells in Oikawa's head. It never really occurred to him that he didn't know Kageyama's birthday, or that Kageyama was the type of person that had a birthday at all. But how did these Komori and Kiyoomi people know it was today? And how come no one Karasuno's team mentioned it when they'd all been together since seven in the morning?

He frowned at nothing in particular, opened up the other messages.

> **Chigaya Eikichi [8:33 AM]  
>  ** Komori-san told me it's your birthday today. Congratulations, Kageyama!! ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/

Another birthday text, from some guy named Chigaya this time. Who even were all these people?

> **Hoshiumi Kourai [10:05 AM]  
>  ** happy birthday

Well, that one was really plain. Oikawa scowled at his phone as though it was this Hoshiumi guy's face instead, shook his head, and moved on to the final message.

> **Miya Atsumu [10:09 AM]**

_Holy shit._

Without even having read the message, Oikawa's grip on his phone slackened and he'd only managed to catch the thing through his quick reflexes and panic-induced adrenaline. Miya Atsumu was a second year volleyball player for Inarizaki, and deigned the best high school setter in the entirety of Japan. Oikawa distinctly remembered catching one of their games at Nationals sometime last year through the television and remembered grinding his teeth the entire time, at the team's plays, at that fucking annoying school cheer squad, at the stupid grin on the surprisingly sly boy's face.

Kageyama had his number.

Desperately shaking himself back into coherency and briefly checking the time on his watch just to make sure he hadn't gawked for too long, Oikawa headed out of the clubroom, eyes unable to focus anywhere other than the text Kageyama had apparently gotten from one of the most excellent players in the history of players.

> **Miya Atsumu [10:09 AM]  
>  ** Tobio-kun~ happy birthday!! Can't wait to see you at Nationals!

Just like that, he was stopping midstep.

_Tobio-kun?_

Oikawa stared at the name for far longer than was probably necessary. He'd spent a record time of one week and four days living Kageyama's life for him, not interacting with all of his not-friends and trying to blend in with his teammates, and the only person he'd encountered who called him by his first name was his mother, who didn't even do so that often because she was never around. But now here was Japan's most famous high school setter, doing exactly that. Using an honorific different from the one Oikawa usually did. Adding a tilde at the end. Expressing his excitement to see Kageyama in the near future.

The nerve of this guy. How the hell did Kageyama meet him, anyway?

More importantly, however: why the hell didn't Kageyama tell Oikawa that it was his birthday today? Oikawa shook his head and blackened up the phone screen, shoved the device in his pocket, wondered why anyone would arrange to meet up for volleyball on the day of their birth, the day to chill and celebrate with family and friends. Then again, Kageyama had never seemed like the type to care about those things, and letting him playing volleyball today of all days would probably the best gift anyone could ever give him, but still. How did nobody know about it? And how did these people—Komori and Chigaya and Miya with his _freaking_ _Tobio-kun—_ know when they were probably all so far away?

Oikawa ran down the stairsteps, his jaw set. Kageyama would have a lot of explaining to do.

 

* * *

 

On the first day of his final year at Kitagawa Daiichi, he'd proudly held the title captain and looked upon his constituents and the fresh blood of the team with the biggest smile on his face. He'd watched them introduce themselves, nodded and smiled as they awkwardly did their bows, but really only one of them caught his eye.

"I'm Kageyama Tobio, from Akiyama Elementary School."

The young Oikawa had bitten his lip to keep from laughing, but had ended up releasing an undignified, "pff" sound anyway.

Iwaizumi had looked at him like he'd somehow caught the plague. "What are you laughing at?"

"He's so cute," Oikawa had explained amidst light chuckles.

"What the heck." As was usually said in junior high.

"Look at him! So tiny. And his hair's all over the place."

"You'd know about hair being all over the place."

"I like the colour of his eyes," Oikawa only continued. "His name is Kageyama Tobio, he said? Aww, that sounds so adorable!"

"You're such a weirdo."

He didn't hear anything that Iwaizumi had to say that afternoon. It had gotten him a light smack to the head, but whatever. Oikawa was still jovial as he watched the first years run their very first set of laps, still grinning as he jogged up to each and every one of them, matched their pace, surprised them by being able to remember all of their names, and gave them a little introductory talk to officially welcome them to—not really the team, but the club.

That grin became a little wider when it was time to jog up to Kageyama.

"Hi, there!"

"Oh," Kageyama had said, looking up at him with bright, innocent eyes, "hello, captain!"

"Aw, no, no need for captain! You can just call me Oikawa."

"Okay, Oikawa-san."

"So!" Oikawa clapped his hands together even as they ran. "Are you excited to start playing? What position are you trying out for?"

"I don't really have anything in mind yet. All of them are pretty cool."

"Right, right? I'm glad you think so!"

"What's your position, Oikawa-san?"

Oikawa's joy seemed to peak at the show of curiosity. He was the only newbie that had asked him anything, so far. "I'm this year's starting setter."

"Ohh. Setters mostly toss, right?"

"Yup!"

"I've practiced tossing too, though spiking is kind of cooler, isn't it?"

"Hmm, I wouldn't say that." Oikawa winked. "Spiking is really cool, but you'd be surprised just how important the setter is to the game. If you pay close attention to all of them this year and study up, I'm sure you'll see what I'm talking about."

Kageyama beamed at him. "Okay!"

"All right! If you ever have any team-related problems, or maybe even some school ones or personal ones, don't forget you can always approach me and talk about them, okay? As captain, I need to make sure this whole club is in tip-top form, so I'll do my very best to help!"

"Okay. Thank you very much!"

"Sure, sure! See you around, Tobio-chan!"

He was pretty sure that Kageyama had tripped on his own feet as he jogged away—that was how he'd interpreted the abrupt, "Uh—" sound he'd heard while his back was turned, anyway—but he still left the interaction smiling, welling up with excitement even, eager to get to know the new meat and integrate them into the team as best he could.

Where had the days gone?

Now he was lugging both his bag and his body that wasn't actually his body up the steep road to Kageyama's house, thinking back on their first meeting like some nostalgic prick, once again cursing the damned fortune cookies for forcing him to spend his lovely Saturday afternoons like this. He was definitely getting to know Kageyama now, more so than he'd ever want to, _thanks a lot, junior high Tooru; you're getting what you asked for,_ and in the most unconventional of ways. And as if that wasn't enough, now they were even going to play volleyball together. Wasn't _that_ just the icing on top of the cake?

Cake, Oikawa remembered, that Tobio hadn't received at all today yet.

"Tobio," he quietly mouthed as he strolled the pavement, and the word seemed to roll off his tongue like it was something that frequented his speech. It really was a nice name. He could still vividly remember how amused he'd been upon discovering that the characters for the name read 'flying hero'; he'd giggled a good while before Iwaizumi told him to cut it out. It was proving to be difficult not to smile right now, in fact, and Oikawa had to pretend to rub above his lip just for the sake of clearing the laughter from his face.

Kageyama wasn't cute anymore, though. He definitely wasn't.

He'd probably managed to repeat the same sentence a hundred times over before he finally made it to Kageyama's street. His own body was already standing near the porch steps, looking warm and cozy in a thick winter coat and Oikawa's favourite scarf, tossing the ball up when he arrived.

His first instict was to frown. "Hey," Oikawa called.

Kageyama had jumped but, miraculously, still managed to catch the ball as it fell before freezing in place. "Hey?"

"Don't just 'hey' back at me. Why did you not even think to mention that today's your birthday?"

What greeted him was a plain face, because of course. "Was I supposed to?"

"Were you sup—" Oikawa began, but he cut himself off in favour of sighing, shaking his head. "No. No, you're not _supposed_ to, but to regular people, this is a really important day, so most of them would probably bring it up when they're planning to meet up with another living, breathing person that could help them celebrate. You know?"

"Uh, well, I didn't think I needed to, since…this isn't really a friendly meeting."

"Regardless." Oikawa gave an airy wave of the hand, staring far into the street corner, trying to find a nearby food establishment or something. "Come on, let's go."

"What? Where?"

"We're going to get some food."

"But we're going to practice—"

"Yes, I know we're going to practice the toss, but we still have the whole afternoon ahead for that. It's your birthday and nobody else is going to give the actual you cake or anything while you're in that body. Your body itself hasn't even received anything, by the way, so I'm going to be eating too. No contesting. Let's go. What do you want to get?"

Expression hesitant and uneasy, Kageyama's feet remained planted where it was, his hands still wrapped around the ball like he wasn't going to let go of it for the world. He stared Oikawa right in the eye, and Oikawa stared back just as hard, lest he be looking for signs of second thoughts or mockery or anything but sincerity.

Eventually, he did glance in another direction. "Um, there's a convenience store about two streets away from here," Kageyama said. "We could get meat buns?"

It wasn't favourable to Oikawa's taste, but that didn't matter. He gestured a hand out. "Lead the way."

 

* * *

 

How Oikawa found out about his birthday and why it mattered so much if they managed to go out and celebrate were two of the most pressing mysteries to ever plague Kageyama in all his (now) sixteen years of life, and if he didn't see them coming he most certainly did not have any time to think about them. Whereas all of his walks and conversations with his former senior had been quiet so far, today was one grand exception. Before they could even leave the general vicinity of the house, Oikawa was already running his mouth, asking question after question in a voice that made all his words seem like complaints.

"I don't understand how none of your teammates brought it up," he was saying. "Do they even know?"

"Um, I don't think I ever told them."

"If you were in your body today, would you have told them?"

"Probably not."

"Did nobody ever think to ask?"

"Uh, I guess not."

"That's bogus, Tobio."

"Sorry?" Kageyama wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. "Uh, Takeda-sensei probably knows, though. I think they have that in their records."

"Who, your tiny club advisor? He wasn't here today. Or maybe I just didn't catch him; I dunno. I left early. But I still can't believe—" Oikawa's face was pained, appalled, and his hands were outstretched like he was begging the gods for an answer to the world's most important questions. "Okay, but—how do you celebrate your birthday at home? You _have_ to celebrate your birthday at home, right? Don't tell me you don't give a fuck about your birthday either."

"I—I do!" Kageyama protested. "My mom buys me cake. If it's a weekday, she comes home earlier so that we can have dinner together."

"Good," Oikawa said, before falling silent for the first time since they reunited that afternoon. Kageyama studied his expression, one filled with a different kind of pain this time, watched him watch Kageyama from only the corner of his right eye. "Oh, and um. We're—we're cool, right?"

"Cool?" Kageyama repeated.

"You know. With the whole—your mom, and all."

"My mom?" Kageyama repeated yet again, and their week-old argument resurfaced in his brain for the first time in—well, a week. "Oh. Um, yeah. I guess."

"Okay, cool, that aside—" Oikawa averted his already-miniscule gaze immediately, seemed to be fetching something from his jacket pocket. He reemerged, handing out Kageyama's phone. "Here."

"Um, what do I do with it?"

"Aren't you wondering how I found out it's your birthday?" Oikawa asked. He nodded at the phone. "You got, like, four texts from people who aren't even on your team. Some of them probably even aren't from this prefecture. How could you not have told me you were friends with Miya Atsumu?"

"Miya-san texted?" Kageyama asked, genuinely confused. He took the phone out of Oikawa's hands and examined the last four messages, only to be greeted by, indeed, birthday texts from Miya, Hoshiumi, Chigaya, and Komori. He'd almost forgotten that Komori had went and collected everyone's birthdays in his little address book a few weeks ago. "Oh. Right. We're not exactly friends. We just met at Youth Camp."

"Oh. Well—aren't you gonna answer him?"

"I guess," Kageyama said, shrugging. As they walked, he opened up a new message box, added all four contacts on the list of recepients, only minimally frowned at the way Oikawa seemed to be excessively leaning over, obviously watching him and his fingers closely. He didn't even want to know what the guy's problem was this time. He simply shook his head, typed out a simple, 'Thank you', and hit send.

He felt part of Oikawa's sigh near his jaw, flinched at the gust of cold wind that tickled his skin right before Oikawa moved away.

"Wait a minute," Oikawa said, stopping suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk. "Youth Camp? You met all those guys at Youth Camp?"

"Yeah?"

"So that means all of them are some of the best high school players in the country?"

"Yeah."

"So _that_ means—holy shit, that Kiyoomi guy is Sakusa Kiyoomi? Best ace Sakusa Kiyoomi? Better than Ushiwaka Sakusa Kiyoomi?"

"Uh, yeah."

" _Holy shit."_

The rest of the trip to the store was simply Oikawa shaking Kageyama every now and again, asking him questions about Youth Camp and what Sakusa was like and who the hell Hoshiumi and Chigaya were, et cetera. He was more excited than what Kageyama was used to, his grin mischievous but not ill-suited as he mumbled about Sakusa being the best at 'putting Ushiwaka in his place, in the trash where be belongs', his voice as loud as Kageyama remembered it back from junior high whenever he was high on a win and talking to his friends.

And now that they were going out for meat buns and talking about talented players their age, it almost did seem like they were friends. The thought of it made Kageyama warm up, but the part that wasn't warm was sensible and still had its doubts, because he'd never considered that possibility to be a possibility at all. Oikawa probably felt the same.

Still, it was nice to walk the street with him, nice to see him open the door to the store for the both of them, nice to stare at the counter menu with him, even if it wasn’t exactly _him_ Kageyama was seeing. His presence was constant and pleasant regardless, the warmth and scent of the freshly-made meat bun in his hand only a secondary sensation.

"Pork curry buns, huh? That's as good a present as any," Oikawa said, holding a brown bag housing their three remaining pork buns and two beef buns. He examined the bag for a potential piece to take, but hummed, tore a tiny piece of the paper thing and handed it to Kageyama instead. "Here."

Kageyama didn't stop chewing. "What's this?"

"Special birthday coupon, limited edition. Gives you permission to ask mom to buy a fuck ton of milk next time she goes to the groceries with the excuse that it'll help your mental state for the upcoming tests."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously. Don't you see the coupon?"

"Thank you very much!"

"Okay, wow, that really made you happy. Weirdo."

But even if they weren't friends, they weren't what they were before. Kageyama could sense at least that. The insults that he heard back when he was a child felt different from the insults he heard now. They seemed to read differently, and though Kageyama wasn't the best at reading people (putting it nicely; case in point, he was terrible at it) and listening, really _listening_ to what they were trying to say, he felt like he could entrust the certainty to the way Oikawa once again opened the door for him as they left, to the way he comically escorted Kageyama to the curb and had him sit down because his 'aged, burned-out legs are gonna need it', to the way he plopped right down beside him and sniffed at the meat buns.

Miya hadn't been his friend. But perhaps Oikawa could be.

"So, wait, youre really not extra attached to that Miya Atsumu guy?"

"No. Not any more so than the others. Why?"

Oikawa shrugged, rolled his bun around with his fingers. "Nothing, really. He calls you Tobio-kun, so I got to thinking."

"What does that matter? You call me Tobio- _chan._ That's worse." Oikawa huffed, and Kageyama snorted, remembered Miya's overtly happy face and the way his eyelids fell when he was talking shit about other people. "He reminds me of you actually."

"Um, what the fuck, that's offensive. I've watched him in games; he's _nothing_ like me."

"He's _everything_ like you."

"He's a complete loser!"

"Even better, then."

"Oh my _god."_

Oikawa bit into his bun, mumbled something about Kageyama being the worst conversational partner to ever exist in the history of conversational partners, but that was fine. Kageyama wasn't quite sure what prompted him to think that Miya was a loser when the latter was nothing but calm and composed during the entirety of camp, but even without that, he really could see a lot of them in each other.

Both excellent setters, first and foremost, with an ability to cater to just about anybody. They both smiled more often than they didn't, and more than half of those smiles probably nobody could judge the genuity or the intention. They both called him 'Tobio', that was true, and seemed to talk to him in the same manner, though what manner that was he didn't think he could name just yet. They were both thought-provoking, both kind of spoke in thought-out riddles, were both imperative influences to the style with which Kageyama played and tossed, Oikawa chiding him for returning to his Kingly nature and then Miya calling him some Goody Two-shoes.

He stopped in the middle of a bite at the recollection.

It had confused him for days, Miya's little one-liner, and it still confused him today because nobody at the camp had been able to explain it to him when he asked. He'd forgotten about it for a while, on account of how he was technically intruding in Oikawa's house every day, but now that it was in the air again, he wasn't sure how easy it would be to brush aside.

He looked at Oikawa, still surly and chewing too dramatically on his beef bun, and wondered if he could possibly know what it meant. Perhaps his and Miya's similarities in personality and behaviour could mean a similarity in thought process and comprehension as well. It probably wouldn't hurt to try.

"Hey, Oikawa-san?"

"Yes, you cruel oaf?"

Kageyama sighed out from his nose. "When we were at training camp," he said, and Oikawa met his eyes, perhaps sensing the beginnings of an anecdote, "after some tossing and spiking practice, Miya-san came up to me and told me that I'm a 'goody two-shoes'. Do you know what he could've meant?"

Oikawa frowned, swallowed the bread sitting inside his mouth. "He called you a 'goody two-shoes'?" he said, blinking at nothing in particular, glancing at the ground and the sky. "Well, if he meant it as an insult, then he needs to work on his vocabulary because that is super weak. But…you say he told you that after practicing tossing and spiking?"

"Yes."

"Were you tossing or spiking?"

"Tossing."

He shifted in place, stared at the ground again, and this time, the pause was long. "How exactly were you tossing?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—describe it. Everytime someone new would pass you the ball, what would you do?"

"Uh, well, if it's the first time, I'll ask them what kind they want. And then if they have any complaints, I'll ask them to tell me so I can adjust. We stop when we get a few good ones in."

"Uh-huh," Oikawa said, after another brief silence. "Well, if that was a pattern you used with everyone and he called you a 'goody two-shoes' I guess that just means you've become the opposite of a kingly setter."

"The opposite of a kingly setter."

"A slave," Oikawa clarified, looking him directly in the eye, and his gaze felt like a punch to the chest. "You're the setter, the control tower of the offense, but it's like you're only there to serve the spikers. You're there to give them what they want and nothing more."

Kageyama opened his mouth to speak, paused as words upon words in different voices—Miya's, Ushijima's, Oikawa's outside of the children's volleyball class—swam in his mind. "But," he tried, "but didn't you tell me that that's what I had to do not to be selfish?"

"I told you you have to listen to your teammates because the offense is a collective effort between the attacker and the setter," Oikawa said, "but that doesn't mean you become a lapdog that comes running everytime someone thinks up a brand new command for you. Sure, I mean—you hear them out, you experiment with them, but your main goal is to do what's best for the team, what'll bring the team to victory. Just don't do it at someone's expense. For example—you know how Kindaichi's timing is kind of slow? I know you noticed that. Before I let him settle for that I had him try out other things too, because he's not the boss of me and my sets for him. Of course, I'm not the boss of him either. It's an exchange. It's supposed to be mutual. 

"There's such thing as a healthy mix between a slave and a king, Tobio. You just have to find the configuration that works for you."

The silence Oikawa allowed after his words was a good way to let them sink in. Kageyama looked down at his shoes but didn't really see them, deep in wonder at the insinuation that he'd done a complete one hundred and eighty-degree turn from a dictator to a lackey. His afternoons the last few months undoubtedly had been spent tailoring his tosses for every other person with him on the court, every specific person, but for the longest time he thought it was normal, that it was the only way to go.

That it was the only way that the rest of the team was going to accept him. Perhaps junior high had a bigger effect on him than he'd initially thought.

More important than that, however, was the sudden realization that settled its weight on his chest the moment he met Oikawa's eyes again. "Did you…did you just give me setting advice?"

Oikawa seemed to tense, his jaw locked tight and his eyes unfocused—and then he was scrunching his face up, covering it with the bag of buns. "Damn, you made me fall for that one. Ugh, I can't _believe_ this," he groaned, shaking his head, getting to his feet. He haphazardly dropped the food onto Kageyama's lap. "Forget I said anything. That wasn't advice. Shut up."

Rolling his eyes, Kageyama held onto the buns, didn't have to wait for Oikawa to tell him to get up. "I _am_ teaching you my toss," he reminded, but Oikawa only groaned further and held his hand over his eyes. "It's pretty fair trade, right?"

With a resigned, fatigued sigh, Oikawa briefly scowled in Kageyama's direction, finally letting his ever-theatrical hand fall to his side. "Yeah, sure we'll call it that. _Ugh,_ god, this entire fiasco is throwing me off my groove. Let's just get this over with."

He marched ahead, Kageyama wasting no time in falling into step beside him.

 

* * *

 

For probably the hundredth time that day, his ball missed the target completely.

With a grand inhale and heavy sigh, an almost desperate attempt to catch his wavering breath, Oikawa allowed his upper body to fall, his hands on his knees, his head bowed away from view. It was already Sunday, already his second training session with Kageyama in an attempt to learn what Kageyama had long since mastered, but no matter how many times he tossed, the ball just never went the way he wanted it to.

Yesterday, it had honestly seemed like there was a semblance of hope. He'd thrown the ball to Kageyama a few times before running up to spike and it took some work but they'd managed to synch perfectly after several tries, the ball clearer than ever in Oikawa's field of vision even in mid-air, always somehow stopping right where he thought he could hit. It was almost miraculous, definitely terrifying, how spot-on Kageyama's estimations were. His explanations were simple enough, though, and Oikawa had high spirits when he began attempting.

Higher spirits meant more of an opportunity to tumble lower. Now, roughly twenty-four hours later, two outside practices and one fruitless Karasuno practice later, he felt ready to throw himself off a bridge. Speaking of low.

"That's okay," Kageyama's voice called out to him. "Just try again. Don't forget to—"

"Visualize a spiker and not the bottle; I _know_ , Tobio, you've said it a million times already," Oikawa snapped, still breathing hard but straightening up at least. The stretch was good for his spine, it seemed, and he sighed out, sent a brief glance Kageyama's way just to make sure he hadn't angered the boy enough to spark another yelling session. "Next, please."

He was pretty fortunate that Kageyama was borderline numb. His face was still calm as he threw another ball for Oikawa to work with.

Oikawa followed the ball with his eyes, slowly lifted his hands up to meet it in the air. He'd done this far too many times before. It was supposed to be second nature, comfortable; for the past few years know, he'd been confidently sending ball after ball flying off from his fingertips and it was as if they obeyed his every whim. But right now, the moment his skin made contact with the rubber, he was filled with a different sensation.

Failure. This ball was going to fail.

And when he whipped around, the first sight to greet him was the ball falling in an arc as it always did, managing to knock over one of the targets but not quite the one he'd aimed for. The sound of it was annoying against the asphalt.

He didn't think he'd ever felt this hopeless in a while.

"Uh, well, you got a bottle," Kageyama said, perhaps trying to be helpful.

It didn't work, but Oikawa could only laugh, minus all the humour. He harshly ran his fingers through his hair, kept his grip locked there as he chewed on his bottom lip. "Are we—are we even sure that this is possible?"

"Of course it's possible, I—"

"Yeah, _you_ can do it just fine. But what about me?" Oikawa let his arm relax, fall to his side, but the rest of him was anything but at peace. He purposively met Kageyama's eyes. They were wider than usual. "I'm not as talented as you are. I'm not a genius and I never have been, and I never will be. I don't have the accuracy of a machine. So you being able to do it isn't good enough for you to declare that I can do it too. It's just—it feels _impossible."_

He set his hands on his hips, lowered his head, breathed like it was all he could do.

It felt like the quiet of the open street was eating him up, lumping him with all his so-called insecurities and ridiculous life grievances. It was probably such a small thing to other people, to people like Kageyama who dived head-first into everything without a care and managed to emerge victorious and exhilirated and _brave_ _—_ a brand of brave that Oikawa could never be—but to him, it felt like the end. Like all that was left was to drag it all out and cry about it, not that he would let himself do that while they were here.

And not that Kageyama would let him either. "Oikawa-san."

Oikawa didn't want to look at him—

"Just how highly do you think of me?"

—but he did anyway, and very abruptly.

Kageyama had his arms crossed, had his eyes narrowed. "Ukai-san told me about this toss back in July. I started trying it in back in July, and the first times around I wanted to throw something because I just couldn't get the hang of it. I do it well now because what month is it? It's December. I've had six months to practice it, and there are still times that it doesn't go the way I want it to. For you, it's barely been two days and you're practicing on the street. In _winter_. Could you cut yourself a little slack here?"

It was Oikawa's jaw that threatened to fall slack.

"And you keep calling me a genius, but who even told you that? Do you know how much time I spent with the ball back when I was in elementary? Do you know how many times I went to school with bandaids on the face because I kept hitting myself?" Kageyama continued, and all of Oikawa's concerns were chased away by raw shock. He'd heard his own voice ramble before, of course, but the fact that it was Kageyama rambling with it was more chilling than the snow. "I worked hard to become a proper player. I worked hard to toss well. I worked hard to learn the jump serve after you said you'd never teach me. What _genius_ are you talking about?"

"But—"

"And are you even qualified to talk about something being impossible? Aren't you the one who always said that nothing becomes impossible until you tell yourself that it is?" Okay, how the hell did Kageyama find out about that. Oikawa furrowed his eyebrows, watched as Kageyama paced, seemed to lose himself in his own one-sided conversation. "And aren't you always the pillar of your team? The one everyone's always asking for help? And isn't basically your entire life as a setter dedicated to improving every player that you come across and encouraging them? Why aren't you like that with yourself?"

He stopped walking, stopped talking, but Oikawa had no words to offer yet either.

"You know," Kageyama spoke again, slower this time, "some people might say that how good you are at connecting with other people so quickly is impossible. Or your super fast, super strong serve that's almost like a spike that you still manage to land inside the court. And right in the spot where you want it."

The last ball Oikawa had dropped bounced lightly against his sneaker, and he took it in his hands, looked Oikawa dead in the eye and dared him to look away. "But you managed all of that," he said, "and you're going to manage this. You're going to learn it, you're going to be good at it in the same way that you are with everything else, and you're going to perfect it. In the best way that you know how."

And Kageyama threw the ball at him once again. Not for him to toss, but to catch. He gasped lightly as it collided with his chest, bringing along with it memories of Kitagawa Daiichi, of him staying in the court until the sky was dark and starry and getting scolded by Iwaizumi for pushing himself to the edge, of him jumping and serving over and over again until the ball no longer hit the net, of him staying up watching games and drawing formations and reading notes he'd written about his own teammates; and then of him at Aoba Johsai, doing virtually the exact same thing, over and over again.

He looked up to face Kageyama once more. The competent glint in his eyes was unnerving, kind of irritating, but also invigorating as hell and Oikawa had to clutch tightly onto the ball to bite back his own smile, not that it worked. He clicked his tongue, a too-deliberate show of non-existent exasperation, spun the ball in his hands, allowed himself a grin as he threw it back to his assistant for the afternoon.

"You know what, Tobio," he said, not at all surprised at the ease with which Kageyama caught his projectile, "you _really_ piss me off sometimes."

As usual, as always, Kageyama's face didn't change. "I do know that."

"Good." Oikawa rolled his sleeves up, took a breath. "Give it to me again."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now i feel bad i didn't post this on my birthday. if i could've just pulled myself together three days earlier, it would've synched ~~and i could've fished for greetings lmao i'm joking~~ , but oh well. at least kageyama can get some milk now. yours truly has like six packs waiting in the fridge. they shall be eaten with my freshly-baked muffins
> 
> also a bunch of links because i wrote this i get to self-promote okay  
> || [tumblr](http://kakkoweeb.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/diecrotic) | [writing journal](https://diecrotic.dreamwidth.org/) | [instagram bc why not](https://www.instagram.com/diecrotic/) ||


	10. as the road back home is vanishing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long wait for a longer wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my updates might be getting slower (i'm a guilty busy bee, thats-a-me), but you guys aren't getting any less supportive, and i appreciate that very hard! special thanks to ao3 user [@espionne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/espionne) (this is your second mention in the notes for this fic; incredible) for leaving a comment now very dear to my heart, one that pushed me into writing when i felt sure that i couldn't. i hereby present to you the Best Comment award. thank you so much! you seriously deserve a prize. thanks, everyone, for getting the fic to 300 kudoses as well!! i'll try my best to deserve them (ง •̀_•́)ง
> 
> oh, and an anon messaged me and said that i should advertise my promotional art here because it was cute so i will, but i don't think you're gonna get much from [this chapter's installment](http://nishi-key.tumblr.com/post/167192586703/so-guess-what-i-managed-to-dish-out-an-update) lol. i'm sorry

Kageyama's body's hands felt rougher than they ever had before, so much rougher that the soft touch of a bath towel that following Monday morning was as divine as heaven itself. Oikawa couldn't contain the deep, too-satisfied sigh that left his nose and mouth at the sensation, but no one could blame him, really. His fingertips had come in contact with nothing but hard rubber in the last forty-eight hours and even his nails hadn't been spared from discomfort, not after Kageyama had so ruthlessly ordered them cut yesterday.

Yesterday. The thought of it made Oikawa want to drop everything and head back into bed, but not because it was particularly exhausting, or even hateful. It simply felt like part of one big, ridiculous dream, even more so than the day he'd first seen Kageyama's face in the mirror instead of his own had been. A few years back, he probably would have laughed in your face if you'd told him he would be hitting his rival's tosses out on the street. Hell, a few _weeks_ back he would've spat at your shoes, theoretically. And yet here he was, in Kageyama's shower, not laughing, not spitting. Just amazed.

Hitting Kageyama's tosses had only been the beginning. Getting to learn something from him, having him watch as Oikawa struggled to grasp a technique he'd taught, hearing him give comfort and advice (though it felt like he was rambling to himself, more than anything) were on a whole other level of different and unexpected, and up till now, some twelve hours later, he still felt like grinning, still felt some causeless adrenaline coursing through his veins, felt invincible somehow despite the fact that his tossed balls continued to fail for the rest of that night until the arrival of Kageyama's mother told them it was far too late to carry on.

The practice ended without much of a bang or reason to celebrate, but he'd reentered Kageyama's house afterward (with Kageyama himself, just so he could warm up before trekking back to the Oikawa house) feeling lighter than he had in a while, the same sort of light he felt after a good day back in his own home and body. Familiarity wasn't the only road to contentment, he supposed, as he watched Kageyama inside his body shake his hair clean of snow like a dog after a shower. It was his body that looked ridiculous but the action was just so Kageyama that he'd ended up struggling to keep his snorting laugh to himself anyway.

But as if all of those surprises hadn't been enough, right as he was about to leave, Kageyama had suddenly up and grabbed his body's hand after Oikawa had so heartily tapped on his chin, and glared at his own fingernails.

"Don't you cut my nails, Oikawa-san?" he'd said.

"What? Of course I cut your—my—yes, I cut them."

"Then what are these?"

He straightened his original hand's fingers enough for the nails in question to fall into Oikawa's line of sight—and they were perfecly good nails, mind you. Oikawa blinked at them. "What about them?"

"They're not even. And they're not cut up to the end. If you're going to set with maximum precision, your nails have to be just the right length. Even just half a millimeter difference can throw the toss off."

"Are you serious right now."

To say that he'd been completely flabberghasted when Kageyama had suddenly grabbed the nail cutter and attempted to chop his nails off to the very brim would be a colossal understatement, and if he hadn't been used to dealing with surprise acts of violence, it would've actually happened. But he'd managed to pull his nails to safety just in time, finally got Kageyama to back off after promising no less than forty times that he would cut them and cut them well, and that he would show Kageyama tomorrow morning so he could check.

But then they both grew quiet.

"Um," Kageyama had said, " _are_ we still going to keep meeting in the morning?"

They hadn't in a long time, not since Kageyama started coming over for tutoring sessions, not since he stopped because of their argument.

"I kind of feel like there's no reason to," he continued. "Maybe—maybe it's more important that we, uh, you know, get back in the swing of each other's regular lives. Like, you can go to morning practice straightaway, and I can finally start walking with Iwaizumi-san in the morning again so your friends don't suddenly attack me."

It made sense, much to Oikawa's surprise (he didn't realize Kageyama had the capacity to make sense until recently), because if they weren't going to return to their bodies anytime soon (and given the lack of any more fortune cookie encounters or supernatural activity of any kind it definitely didn't seem like they were going to return to their bodies anytime soon, awful as it sounded), there was going to be a lot of adapting to do. Kageyama couldn't avoid Iwaizumi forever. The two of them couldn't keep making detours for their old middle school campus forever.

But there was still one final concern. Oikawa made sure to study Kageyama's face as he left it out on the table. "What about homework? Are we not going to switch anymore? Can you handle it?"

A large part of him thought Kageyama would shake his head and ask to meet up after all, but the entirety of his person had come to a startled halt when Kageyama gave a confident nod instead. "I can do it," he'd said. "Please don't worry."

Such competence when it came to matters outside volleyball was almost too out-of-character for Oikawa to accept, but Kageyama's expression was far too solemn, far too genuine to doubt. And he didn't want to doubt either; he wanted to believe that they actually managed to take things and keep them under their control, that they'd succeeded individually and as a tandem in handling what would otherwise be a tubulent situation.

So he agreed, nodded, not so much with the proposition as he did with the determined glimmer in Kageyama's eyes and the conviction on his face.

His face—that right now Oikawa couldn't help but stare at in the mirror as he finished up his bath.

It wasn't far off from the face that he saw four years ago, tiny and fired up over running laps around the Kitagawa Daiichi gym. The Kageyama then had eyes that were round and bright, and now, from afar, one could easily be fooled into thinking otherwise because of the addition of furrowed eyebrows and low lids, but they still had the same, pale blue, captivating glint to them as they stared at themselves in the mirror. His skin had gotten darker but the curve of his nose was the same, the thin line of his lips was the same. He'd been small, far smaller than the rest of the first years that had come knocking on the club doors, and it had to go without saying but Oikawa had honestly never noticed that he'd grown. He'd _grown._ And not just taller.

His eyes hadn't changed but his gaze definitely did, the shine in them no longer as innocent as it was piercing, borderline frightening, even when he wasn't conveying anger on his face. His jaw was set harder, more rigid, finer. The muscles of his neck were far clearer, a quick swallow instantly drawing Oikawa's eyes to the hard lines that made up Kageyama's Adam's apple. He'd been seeing these for months now, up close for a few weeks, and yet they seemed so new. Felt so new.

And he didn't even want to get started on Kageyama's shoulders and arms. _Those_ had no doubt changed since middle school, back when he'd still been an unconditioned noodle of a twelve-year old. Now the description 'noodle' was simply unnacceptable. It wasn't obvious in his body type, unlike with Iwaizumi or Karasuno's own ace, but Kageyama's biceps had a fair amount of bulk to them—hard-pressed and firm, or so he found out with a few studious squeezes. His stomach was flat, incredibly so, well on its way to detailed definition. It almost pissed Oikawa off, how lean he was, how _toned_ everything was, and how all of that corresponded so well with the tough, boyish look of Kageyama's face.

But then he caught himself.

_What the hell am I doing?_

Before he could witness the entirety of his face catching the plague of bright red, he smothered it with his towel, grabbed his discarded clothes, and rushed out of the bathroom, steadfastly deciding to steer clear of any mirrors for the next couple of hours.

 

* * *

 

It took him exactly half a second of standing in front of the closed gym doors to decide that he was going to start that morning off with a bang.

_"Hinata!"_ he yelled, right as the door slid open and hit the wall.

Hinata's squeal was absolutely priceless.

Oikawa very nearly cracked a smile, but he managed to keep Kageyama's facial muscles as taut and upset as they usually were, no matter how terrified his partner-in-crime of the moment appeared. The others in the room weren't that far off. He stepped inside, threw all of them what would probably a scathing look judging from the innate cruelty of Kageyama's face, before locking his gaze on Hinata and bridging the too-wide gap in between them with his firm, harsh steps.

The closer he drew, the louder Hinata's odd whimpering seemed to get, and his stance told Oikawa he wanted nothing more than to grab an upperclassman and hide behind their stronger body for safety, but no one moved. Not even Hinata himself, other than his occasional twitch. They were all just _that_ impatient at this point, and though Oikawa wasn't about to deliver just yet, as he stopped right in front of Kageyama's partner wing spiker, their gazes still locked no matter how much Hinata had to look up and Oikawa had to look down, he knew he was just about ready to begin.

And he would start with this: "Has anyone ever told you that you suck?"

Every single tense soul inhabiting a tense member of the incredibly tense Karasuno volleyclub's body seemed to fall to the ground. Hinata was no exception, except his undignified squawk was a little louder than the others', his skin turning red, his eyebrows twitching every now and again as he stared up at Oikawa, appalled and surprised but not exactly offended. "What—you—of course! You tell me that all the time! Why the heck are you asking now?"

After weeks of not tossing to me, Oikawa was sure he wanted to add, but thankfully he didn't. "I just wanted to make sure you know that you suck," he continued.

He continued to glare at Hinata, even after seeing Sugawara bring a hand to his obviously-smiling mouth from the corner of his eye. The shrimp was far from happy. "Are you trying to pick a fight with me? Is that what you're trying to do?" he yelled, now a little bit offended, raising his tiny fists up. They looked like Iwaizumi would be able to crush them with a single squeeze. "I—I can fight you, you know."

Oikawa almost snorted, but he had a plan to stick to. "You suck."

" _How many times are you going to say it?"_

"And _because_ you suck," Oikawa carried on, ignoring the snickers in the background and Hinata's protests upfront, "we're going to be training even harder for the next few weeks."

Finally all the chatter died down, and even Hinata, who looked like he was just about ready to cry from the irritation, lost all the anger and orchestrated snark on his face. His fists fell back to his sides, but his hands didn't spread back out. He stared at Oikawa from underneath his eyelashes, pouted with a very obvious hint of defiance, of bitterness, of anxiety that hadn't quite been chased away yet. "Well—that was the plan from the start! It was just you who suddenly started going all weird. We haven't had a race in weeks either. I bet your legs are useless now."

Resisting the urge to ask Hinata if he'd ever actually gotten a good long look at Kageyama's thighs, Oikawa crossed his arms. "I'm not going to apologize for that. Like I told everyone who asked, I have my reasons. But." Hinata looked up at him completely, eyes wide, expectant. "I am planning on making up for it."

"So we're finally going to practice the new toss?" Hinata beamed.

"No." And then his entire being fell flat. Oikawa took care not to show any other emotion, kept his arms crossed. If this was going to turn into a fight, teammates and upperclassmen be damned, it was a fight he was willing to have, for the lack of any other choice. "We're not, because you suck."

Hinata was beginning to look a lot less tolerant than he had the first few times, scowling up at Oikawa like he was the most confusing and annoying thing to ever surface on the earth, and the others were filled with their fair share of bewilderment and alarm. Oikawa glimpsed Sawamura taking steps toward him. "Kageyama—"

"Has it really sunk in with you that we're going to Nationals?" Oikawa asked, paying no mind to anyone else, turning his body away from them in fact. "That's the most important stage we could possibly step on, and you're going to be heading there with us even though you're leagues away in terms of skill. You're in an extraordinary position, however you look at it, and so I want to see a show of effort from you. And if you want to hit my tosses, if you want me to toss to you in the way that I do that gets us our wins, then I'm _going_ to see a show of effort from you. Understand?"

He didn't; it was obvious from the look on his face, gaping at Oikawa with furrowed eyebrows like he was an alien with a blinding light on his head. To be honest, when he'd initially thought about it, Oikawa wasn't sure he understood himself. But he couldn't do the toss. Not yet. And he needed to start using it on Hinata without letting Hinata actually _know_ that he was. They were going to have to practice it over and over again until Oikawa got it right, but without alarming anyone, making them feel like Nationals was a lost cause because 'Kageyama' had inexplicably forgotten about his own special move.

And this was the only way to do it. Oikawa hoped the way he'd worded it didn't make him sound like the dictator Kageyama no longer wanted to be.

"Uhh," Hinata said, and the response was a lot less extreme than Oikawa had expected, than his expression declared. "Actually, no, uh, what—what exactly do you want me to do?"

But if Hinata was going to obey so easily, then maybe being a dictator wasn't so bad after all. Oikawa moved towards an un-surrounded ball cart and grabbed one of its contents, soaking in the feeling of his hardened fingers against the rubber, not so much for the sensation as it was for the symbollism. A ritual for good luck, perhaps, though he'd never been one for superstition. "Starting now," he told Hinata, "and until I say so, throughout every practice, you're sticking with me."

 

"Again."

With no words and a quick breath, Hinata threw the ball up for what could've easily been the millionth time that evening alone. Oikawa sent it up once it connected with his fingertips, but even knowing exactly where Hinata was going to go did nothing to make the technique easier. Equally easily for the millionth time that evening, Oikawa waited for Hinata to scream in delight, yell something like, " _Finally_ you tossed it to me in that way!" but the moment never came. He hit the ball and it landed in the other court and even the way he fell back to the ground was routine, along with his hard breathing and his hands on his knees.

Oikawa, though only standing and tossing, was no longer in peak condition either. They'd been at this all day—since the morning, a little during lunch, and all after school—and they were the only ones on the court apart from a concerned Shimizu who held the keys to the gym, the rest of the team having headed back to the clubroom to get changed and rested, but Oikawa hadn't gotten it right yet. He didn't want to stop until he got it right.

He inhaled. "Again."

And again, without complaint, Hinata grabbed a ball and threw it up and hit it. No cheer. No reason to go home.

"Hinata, Kageyama," Shimizu called at last, worry gracing her perfect features. Oikawa supposed it was warranted; he didn't know himself how long they'd been going at it since everybody left. "You should stop and head home. There's no need to push yourselves today alone. There's always tomorrow."

"Sorry," Oikawa said, "you can leave us the keys if you need to go."

"That's not what I said."

"Just a little more, please." Oikawa turned his body away from the net for the first time since the afternoon and bent himself, hoping that the courteous gesture would be enough for Shimizu to realize just how important this was. She was only the team manager and didn't have the same perspective on the practice and the pushing as the actual team did, but she was a sensible one. An athlete too, judging from her build and movements. She had to have a unique perspective of her own.

He heard her sigh. "Are you sure you aren't exhausted?"

"We're not!" Oikawa said a little too hurriedly, straightening up, only realizing that he'd answered for Hinata once he repositioned himself and found the latter with his eyes towards the ceiling, shoulders and chest rising and falling heavily, uncharacteristically silent. It made his own chest a little heavier. "We're—we're not, right?"

Oikawa honestly didn't know why he'd expected anything else, but he was glad when Hinata wiped his sweat off with his shirt sleeve, a determined look in his big eyes. "We're not," he assured.

He took another ball from the cart and threw it, and then another, and another, all of them eliciting not a single reaction that mattered. Oikawa tried not to put on too sour a face so as to not give himself away, sent a silent thanks to the reliable Shimizu who had taken to picking up some of their balls and putting them back in the cart, but his insides felt like they were burning, teeming with impatience and frustration. While Hinata scurried off to chase after one of the balls that had rolled out of the court he took deep breaths, tried to calm himself down, repeated Kageyama's words from the previous night over and over again until they stuck and couldn't leave even if they tried.

How weird that he'd be taking to heart anything that Kageyama had advised.

"Whoa, you guys seriously aren't leaving yet?" came Yamaguchi's voice from the gym doors. His head was only slightly poked through the entryway and his eyes were wide, Tsukishima looking infinitely less interested from behind him. "It's getting pretty late, and we still have school tomorrow."

"We're fine," Oikawa told him.

"You're speaking for both of you?" Tsukishima asked, an eyebrow raised. Oikawa wasn't quite patient enough to deal with any incoming sass, but he stayed quiet. "I know you two are some special brand of infinite-stamina monsters, but it's not only yours to dictate how long a practice goes, is it? Are you really okay with being such a big inconvenience?"

Oikawa stole a glance at Shimizu. "I—"

"Well, I don't know why I'm expecting anything else," Tsukishima continued, shoving his hands in his pockets. "This is the sort of thing a king is supposed to do, anyway."

Something snapped.

King. King, king, king—that was all Oikawa seemed to hear whenever Tsukishima and volleyball were squeezed into the same picture. He would understand, perhaps, if it were anyone on Kitagawa Daiichi's old team that held the term in such high regard, but who even was this french fry of an asshole and why did he seem more hung-up on Kageyama's past actions than Kageyama was?

He cocked his head to the side. "You're _really_ obsessed about that King thing, aren't you?"

The entire room seemed to stop.

But inside Oikawa, all the gears of thought were spinning, ready and willing and trying to form a coherent opinion. He knew where the nickname had come from as well as any other diligent player in the prefecture did. Before Karasuno, Kageyama was a setter who served no one, who tossed for the satisfaction of the win and without consideration for anybody else, who saw no one but himself and therefore matched no one but himself. He expected everyone to come running at his service, get on his level no matter how far below they were on the stair steps to progress, and yes, one would definitely have to be a king to get away with that kind of behaviour for as long as he did.

He didn't get away unscathed, though, and more importantly: that king was only one type of king.

Kageyama was different from before. He'd gotten lost and desperately sought his way back, managed to settle into a space he wasn't supposed to be in because of his desire for the acceptance he hadn't gotten the years before. He wasn't any weaker, didn't have any less drive, but somehow, he still managed to get labelled a 'goody-two-shoes' by the best high school setter in the country because of how he'd changed the way he dealt with his spikers,  how thoroughly he listened to them and complied with what they wanted without getting much of a word in himself, and he was too good for that. Miya Atsumu probably knew it too: that he could do better, that he was too talented and skillful to be stuck in such a stagnant place.

His talent heavily outweighed Oikawa's to be sure and it wasn't right for him to be brought down simply because he didn't know his boundaries when it came to other people. The only thing Oikawa had was the one thing Kageyama lacked, and once he got that right, he would be a king, all right. The kind of king that ruled, not dictated; the kind that knew the best for everyone and led constituents to strive for that best by working with them, closely, and yet without neglecting the power and privilege he had to craft the superior strategy, without forgetting how important his position was. A true control tower, the backbone of an entire kingdom.

An excellent setter. And he was so close yet so far away to reaching that point, any potential means unpredictable but the outcome already expected, that it terrified Oikawa. But at the same time, he knew it would be breathtaking to watch the inevitable transformation and watch as he wowed everyone with his full abilities. Jackasses like Tsukishima included.

Oikawa looked at him. "Since you keep calling me that, you must think I really deserve it."

Both Tsukishima and Yamaguchi jumped, recoiled from the intensity of Oikawa's dark stare and small, almost predatory smile. Double the predatory on Kageyama's face, Oikawa figured; all the better. "And you're absolutely right," he continued, strolling up to the carts and taking a ball in his hands and rolling it around. He knew Shimizu and Hinata were staring at him, faces two versions of terrified, but he reserved his own gaze for Tsukishima alone. "I'm a king." He bounced the ball, rhythmically against the floor. "It's not in my nature to be anything but a king."

And then he trapped it in his hands. "But since when has that necessarily been a bad thing?"

Tsukishima's face was disturbed, repulsed as he urged Yamaguchi to leave with him, but Oikawa kept his almost invisible smile even as he stared at their retreating backs. Starting tomorrow, he decided, Tsukishima was going to have some additional work to do.

 

* * *

 

For Kageyama, the days were filled with the polar opposite of where volleyball sat in the special corners of his heart: studying. What with all his behind-the-scenes scheming regarding Oikawa's volleyball future, he'd completely neglected his extra home study, something he only remembered last Friday when he'd walked into class and overheard a couple of classmates talking about an upcoming Statistics quiz. Until now, he could still remember his primitive sort of fear, almost like it was the examination period before the Tokyo training camps again, and left without much of an option and not enough sanity to study by himself, he'd charged for Iwaizumi's classroom and demanded some pre-quiz tutoring.

Iwaizumi had looked at him with nothing less than horror on his face, but much to Kageyama's relief, he hadn't doubted or said much in protest. "You realize you're smarter than me and probably know more, right?" he only said, but by then he was already taking out his notes, and the look on Oikawa's body's face probably told him well enough that, at least for today, he was wrong.

He didn't have the vaguest idea how he performed on that quiz. The results weren't out yet and the entire hour of numbers and red and black poker chips still felt like some horrible fever dream, but he was going to make up for it, no matter the score. So now he was holed up in his room, homework long since accomplished, books spread out on the desk, heart longing for some time to watch volleyball but he wasn't going to give in, no way. He was going to be here all night, bulking up on intelligence. For sure.

Or so he thought, until his phone was vibrating.

If this was another one of Oikawa's weird friend's chain letters, Kageyama thought, he swore he was going to block the number and burn the evidence. But still, he picked the phone up, patiently checked the message alert.

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:04 PM]  
>  ** hey done with your homework?

Oh. Well, that was odd. Oikawa didn't usually text without an excellent reason. Half-expecting to be given some more terrible news, yet another realization of a problem they weren't yet equipped to handle, Kageyama placed his pen on the desk and unlocked the device.

> **Me [9:05 PM]  
>  ** Yes. What's happening?
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:05 PM]  
>  ** wow relax. nothing major.

Kageyama let out a breath.

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:05 PM]  
>  ** just wanted to ask if you happened to get a look at the manufacturer for the cookies that fucked us over

And then he was staring blankly at his phone. Sugawara had bought those cookies at the convenience store and just held them out in front of every individual member of the team, telling them to get one and read their fortunes out loud. The bag had been clear and plastic—that much he could remember—and each cookie was contained in small, equally clear plastic wrappings that didn't seem to have any writing on them. He couldn't remember even seeing a label that they were fortune cookies, let alone a brand or a manufacturer.

> **Me [9:06 PM]  
>  ** No I don't think so. Why?
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:07 PM]  
>  ** i realized a few days ago that although we looked at the fortune we didn't trace the cookies back to the source. don't you think that maybe if we find out who made them, we'd be able to ask how we can fix this whole mess?
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:07 PM]  
>  ** that's assuming it was done on purpose, of course. and if they didn't we can at least hold them liable?
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:07 PM]  
>  ** assuming again that we can prove we're not insane. ugghhh i hate this
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:08 PM]  
>  ** but we're so distracted by each other's life problems that we forgot to keep working on the problem that caused all of the problems in the first place so what else can we do right??

The messages kept popping up, one after the other, and this may have been the longest, most casual text conversation he'd ever had with anyone other than Hinata, who lived to send him stupid jokes and faces he couldn't decipher. At least he was going to leave this encounter with the knowledge that he knew what Oikawa was like outside the court, over the phone and through written messages. If he ever managed to leave it at all.

It was strictly business, the topic of the texting, but Kageyama struggled to formulate a response anyway. Oikawa's lazy typing and his little 'ugghhs' and multiple question marks gave off an air of friendliness, somehow—something a whole lot different from when they had first exchanged numbers—and he didn't want to lose the pleasant mood of the conversation with his awkwardness and inability to read the proper mood. He swallowed. Maybe he could try being a little casual himself.

> **Me [9:09 PM]  
>  ** That's a lot of problems

Did it work?

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:09 PM]  
>  ** an excellent observation, tobio.

Damn it.

> **Me [9:10 PM]  
>  ** Sorry. How did you get your cookies Oikawa-san?
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:10 PM]  
>  **??? what's the apology for? and one of my teammates makki bought them for us on the way home. we took 3 each and the fortunes were so dumb
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:10 PM]  
>  ** wait
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:10 PM]  
>  ** MAKKI

Kageyama didn't understand why Oikawa couldn't just condense all these single-word texts into a single coherent message.

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:11 PM]  
>  ** tobio go ask makki if he still has the cookie bag!!!! there were still a few inside maybe he hasn't eaten them yet!
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:11 PM]  
>  ** or maybe the bag is still living trash inside his backpack. it's possible.

'Makki' had to be Hanamaki, he figured, but he didn't think he'd ever heard anyone else use that nickname on him. He switched from the messaging application to the contacts list, then back to the messaging application.

> **Me [9:11 PM]  
>  ** Is he the one called MAKKI with the weird face beside the name?
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:12 PM]  
>  ** what do you mean weird?? he's eating a cream puff
> 
> **Me [9:12 PM]  
>  ** He looks like he has a pacifier in his mouth
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:12 PM]  
>  ** you and iwa-chan have the same sense of humor, i swear. dry and flat. no fun.
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:12 PM]  
>  ** just go ask already

Confused as to whether Oikawa was legitimately upset or not, Kageyama closed out of their conversation and found an existing one with Hanamaki listed as the fifth most recently-opened. He clicked on it, tried not to think too much about the series of exclamation point-laden messages that they'd exchanged, and started to type out a message, started it with a little greeting because that was what Oikawa would do, probably.

But he stopped midway through his next word. He and Oikawa texted differently. His texts were direct to the point and mostly properly punctuated and had no faces or little heart or star symbols or anything of the sort, while Oikawa's were—well, the exact opposite, judging by the last message he'd sent to Hanamaki that simply said 'MEAAANNNN' and was accompanied by what looked like a running face (how did a face run without legs?) which Hanamaki had so kindly answered with a simple 'lol'. But if this was going to work and he was going to be able to skip the texts questioning why he was so speaking so formally all of a sudden, he was going to have to adapt.

He sighed.

> **Me [9:14 PM]** **  
> ** hi makki!!!! do you still have the bag for the fortune cookies we ate a few weeks ago? (゜▼゜＊）

This was going to be painful. He set the phone down on the desk and tried to focus once more on his Calculus, not that it would work. The phone vibrated not too long after.

> **MAKKI** **ԅ** **(** **͒** **⊚** **͒** **)** **ᕤ** **[9:17 PM]  
>  ** excuse me?

Kageyama squinted at the text, alarmed.

> **MAKKI** **ԅ** **(** **͒ ⊚** **͒** **)** **ᕤ** **[9:17 PM]  
>  ** oikawa tooru, what kind of person do you take me for
> 
> **MAKKI** **ԅ** **(** **͒** **⊚** **͒** **)** **ᕤ** **[9:17 PM]  
>  ** that bag was a piece of garbage since last week. what do you think i am? the kind of person that doesn't dispose of his trash? the kind that eats cookies and lets the bag rot at the bottom of his backpack only for his mother to discover it months later when she cleans the bag up without his permission because it’s going to attract ants soon???

His lips parted further and further, eyebrows knitted in confusion, as he read the entirety of the message. Oikawa and his friends were definitely a different brand of people than what Kageyama was used to. He looked around the room for anyone who could interpret the text for him, swallowed, and typed.

> **Me [9:18 PM]  
>  ** so do you have it or not

There was a pause.

> **MAKKI** **ԅ** **(** **͒ ⊚** **͒** **)** **ᕤ** **[9:19 PM]  
>  ** yes. why.

Kageyama snorted, the corners of his lips pulling up slightly in an exasperated smile. He typed out some bullshit excuse he didn't think about too much, something about needing to see the manufacturer because this so-and-so person wanted to buy a bag and have their fortune read as well, and then he switched back to his conversation with Oikawa, typed out a message he didn't need to send but simply wanted to.

> **Me [9:19 PM]  
>  ** He finished the cookies last week but he has the bag buried in his stuff somewhere
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:20 PM]  
>  ** I KNEW IT

The reaction was everything he'd ever hoped to get, and he returned to the conversation with Hanamaki smiling even wider than he had when he left it. Texting was actually pretty fun, but maybe that also depended on the person. Oikawa was a terrifying conversational partner sometimes. If Kageyama had a hard time reading people in general, then Oikawa was double or triple the difficulty, his cutesy nicknames and yet mean-spirited smile always a great unreadable contrast and a headache, if Kageyama were to be completely honest. But like this, he felt like they were slowly changing. He could type out what he thought was a joke and Oikawa would shit on it because it was bad, but at least it wouldn't be shut out.

At least he could make the joke now. Just last month, this wouldn't even be an option. He wouldn't even be considering bothering with jokes because who was he going to tell them to? Tsukishima? Yeah, that would end really well.

But now it was half past nine and he was supposed to be studying but he was enjoying himself instead, seated on Oikawa's bedroom floor and texting Oikawa himself, Oikawa who was probably cross-legged on Kageyama's bed and ready to sleep in a few hours and maybe fiddling with Kageyama's magazines. Inconvenient as the situation was, scary as the prospect of living each other's lives was, good things had undoubtedly come out of it. And if they found the manufacturer and managed to beat a cure out of them before it was too late, maybe things would keep taking turns for the better.

Kageyama wasn't much of an optimist but he still had an imagination he could put to work, and he could almost see that bright and happy future. He would go to Nationals with the rest of his team and they would battle all kinds of strong opponents, win it all, beat Inarizaki and Nekoma and Itachiyama and stand on that grand stage wielding nothing but gold. Oikawa would ace all of his classes, get into a good university for free because they would offer him a volleyball scholarship, and go on to become one of the best setters in the country. And maybe through all that, maybe, they would come home at night satisfied with the day, open their message boxes just like this, and exchange jokes until it was time to go to sleep.

It felt a little weird to think about, almost too sappy, but kind of exciting all the same. Kageyama didn't think he'd felt like this since his first year at Kitagawa Daiichi.

His phone's vibration against the wood of the desk was lower than usual.

> **MAKKI** **ԅ** **(** **͒ ⊚** **͒** **)** **ᕤ** **[9:23 PM]  
>  ** hey so i found the bag it wasn't crushed under too many stuff
> 
> **MAKKI** **ԅ** **(** **͒ ⊚** **͒** **)** **ᕤ** **[9:23 PM]  
>  ** but it doesn't really have anything
> 
> **MAKKI** **ԅ** **(** **͒ ⊚** **͒** **)** **ᕤ** **[9:23 PM]  
>  ** no logo, no nutritional facts, no bar code or anything
> 
> **MAKKI** **ԅ** **(** **͒ ⊚** **͒** **)** **ᕤ** **[9:24 PM]  
>  ** which is weird because how did it get checked out at the counter?
> 
> **MAKKI** **ԅ** **(** **͒ ⊚** **͒** **)** **ᕤ** **[9:24 PM]  
>  ** but that's ok i'm sure your nephew can find other brands right?
> 
> **MAKKI** **ԅ** **(** **͒ ⊚** **͒** **)** **ᕤ** **[9:24 PM]  
>  ** hello?
> 
> **MAKKI** **ԅ** **(** **͒ ⊚** **͒** **)** **ᕤ** **[9:25 PM]  
>  ** earth to oikawa?
> 
> **MAKKI** **ԅ** **(** **͒ ⊚** **͒** **)** **ᕤ** **[9:25 PM]  
>  ** was it that important?

Kageyama let the phone black out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first signs of gay have appeared. and so has a new [oikage zine](http://oikagezine.tumblr.com/)!!! surprise, surprise i applied for it again and i managed to pass a second time somehow, so be sure to check it out! 
> 
> and now a bunch of social media links appeared!!! gasppp
> 
> || [tumblr](http://kakkoweeb.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/diecrotic) | [writing journal](https://diecrotic.dreamwidth.org/) | [instagram bc why not](https://www.instagram.com/diecrotic/) ||


	11. a trail of young light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps it’s useless to hope, but it’s even more so to be hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> truly sorry for the wait. [here](https://twitter.com/hq_souco/status/955753973230616576), [might](https://twitter.com/hmm_45/status/956885634114727936) [i](https://twitter.com/HQ_trang/status/958192357509222400) [interest](https://twitter.com/lemon_kakete/status/945306986287046656) [you](https://twitter.com/phettchew/status/947800771642322944) [in](https://twitter.com/hitoshi_ri/status/948530188920373249) [a](https://twitter.com/aoao030/status/950026853313425409) [bunch](https://twitter.com/dodobi_q/status/950759204540698624) [of](https://twitter.com/ft6123ft/status/950381768196018177) [oikage](https://twitter.com/norako_y/status/950382420867477504) [art](https://twitter.com/kt19_tt/status/950388314741211136) [pieces](https://twitter.com/nusoooos/status/952472613372116994) [on](https://twitter.com/dodobi_q/status/952949414858973184) [twitter](https://twitter.com/ugeniee/status/952972173693431809)? because the [oikage](https://twitter.com/hitoshi_ri/status/953258461667647488) [twitter](https://twitter.com/Nessa_HQac/status/952860319411351552) [community](https://twitter.com/hitoshi_ri/status/953606259084636160) is the [absolute](https://twitter.com/1101_fjk/status/953272065045413889) [best](https://twitter.com/paamyang/status/954069539615993856), I [promise](https://twitter.com/noramushi/status/954370440641708035) [you](https://twitter.com/nagishi26/status/954374029359529984). [10/10](https://twitter.com/RKSWKDAOS_GJ/status/954385298766495744) [would](https://twitter.com/nagishi26/status/954727891975118849) [join](https://twitter.com/kt19_tt/status/950388314741211136) [twitter](https://twitter.com/decoske_decco/status/956544692765605888) just to see all this [content](https://twitter.com/ui536/status/861485504537042945). 
> 
> but [here’s the best one](https://kyuuketsuh.tumblr.com/post/170186985849/youre-too-bright-tobio-chan-but-you-like), do you know why? BECAUSE IT WAS MADE FOR ME THAT’S WHY AAAAAA THANK YOU SO MUCH TO VEE!!! I WILL NEVER GET OVER HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS.

Last night's conversation with Kageyama had been one of the bests of its kind, a healthy mix of business and casual punctuated by humour every now and again, and as he sent message after message—ones that weren't awkward, ones that he could easily see himself sending to his friends—Oikawa thought that maybe they would make progress like this. Not only in terms of solving their ("lots of" (Kageyama, 2012)) problems, but furthering whatever their relationship already was, moving past the point of tutoring and meeting up out of necessity and arguing every now and again. And it came as a surprise, but even Oikawa could admit he was excited to see the changes unfolding.

But in a matter of seconds, those already small glimmers of hope, for change and development and normalcy, were being smashed to pieces. Kageyama had stopped texting him for a while, and it had been easy for Oikawa to tell himself then that he was busy with his conversation with Makki, easy for him to use that time to visualize Kageyama interacting with Makki at all and figuring out why that excited him so much. But when he did decide to start sending messages once again, all Oikawa found he could do was read them, lie back in bed, and try to breathe.

> **coolest senpai ever [9:30 PM]  
>  ** Makki-san says that the bag is blank. No logo, no nutritional facts, no bar code, no manufacturer. Even if we do want to have someone to blame for the cookies, it's not going to be the ones who made them. It's like they don't even really exist.
> 
> **coolest senpai ever [9:30 PM]  
>  ** What do we do now?

He wanted to reply. He really did, but he couldn't formulate a proper reply to give, not when the question left on the table rang through his head over and over again until it was too late for him to be awake and thinking. Scrutinizing the bag and pinpointing a manufacturer had been a spur of the moment idea, but it had been a good one, and Oikawa honestly thought that it could be a lead, a single light at the end of the tunnel complete with detours and pitfalls they'd been blindly walking through all this time. But it was a lead that led nowhere, a dead end, and now it felt like he had nowhere to run, that their last escape route had been closed off—reduced to a ruin that could never be traversed again.

Now he only felt more lost than ever, completely hopeless, the words _it's like they don't even exist_ swimming in his head and refusing to be driven away, the clock on Kageyama's table and the calendar hanging on his wall piercing him with gazes that didn't need eyes, reminding him just how quickly day after day where they couldn't do anything went by. Winter break was but some twenty-four hours away. After that, it would be Nationals. And after that, it would be his entrance tests. And after that, it would be his graduation.

He shut his eyes, took a breath. How were they supposed to undo something akin to magic, the supernatural, before any of that had to happen?

"Kageyama!"

He opened his eyes again, shaken out of his nightmarish trance just enough to remember that he was at school for the last day before break and currently—once again—having lunch with Hinata and Yachi by that spot near the vending machine. He struggled to keep his face straight, even as he stared up at Hinata, on his feet and with his arms crossed like a teacher having caught a student dozing off, and glanced at Yachi whose face was painted with concern.

"What?" Oikawa said.

Hinata didn't take kindly to his half-hearted answer. "You know, you've been spacing out and going quiet a lot more than usual lately," he accused, and Oikawa's thoughts were too muddled to decipher whether he was angry or not. "You only ever do that when you're thinking too hard. Is something going on?"

There was so much going on, more than Oikawa thought he could handle, but he only blinked. He didn't know that Kageyama got quiet when he was thinking too hard.

"I already told you before, right?" Hinata continued. "No one's gonna be able to guess what you're thinking, so if something's bothering you, you should talk about it! You're already yelling most of the time anyway, so it's not like we aren't already used to you running your mouth."

He jumped back at the sudden (rightful) furrow of Oikawa's eyebrows (which were Kageyama's in his vision; no wonder he looked terrified and ready to fight), but Oikawa took a moment to consider his words anyway. They hadn't told anybody about what was happening. From the very beginning, Oikawa knew that it wasn't the type of problem he could confide to a thoughtful, listening ear and expect to receive sound advice for. At best, they were probably going to be laughed at, called insane, told to lay off whatever medication they were on, and that wasn't what they and their fragile states of mind needed.

But right then and there, as Yachi offered him a small smile and told him that if he needed help he could always ask for it, he wondered what she and Hinata _could_ do to help. He wasn't going to tell them. He couldn't. But these were the people that knew Kageyama, had slightly friended him, probably cared about him—and they wanted him to go back to normal. Maybe not in the ways Oikawa did, but all the same. And if Oikawa was going to be stuck in Kageyama's body and life until whatever sorcery had brought him here in the first place decided he'd had enough, then, in some messed up way, they wanted to help him too.

Oikawa took a discrete, silent breath, tried not to look like he was scared out of his mind because Kageyama never did. "If," he started, and both of his tiny companions were startled into attention, "someone was stuck in a situation that seemed impossible—that's definitely impossible, maybe—what would be better for that someone to do? Stay hopeful for a solution, or just accept it and brace himself for the worst?"

He didn't know how characteristic it was for him to suddenly pose a psychological question, but Hinata and Yachi both had contemplative faces on as they exchanged glances and stared up at anywhere, perhaps trying to find their own answers. He tried not to smile as he watched them figuratively stroke their chins.

"I'm all for optimism," Hinata said after a short while. "Like before, during our first game against each other, we were all really small and your team was a powerhouse and everyone thought there was no way we could win. Maybe they were right, but that didn't stop me from trying, because what would giving up have done in that situation? It would've just made me sad earlier than when I originally was, when we finally did lose."

"What if the stakes are a little higher than that?" Oikawa pressed, making a mental note to ask Kageyama about how exactly he met Hinata when they met up or texted again. "What if it's not just moving on in volleyball tournaments? What if his life was about to completely slip away from his control? What if his future was about to be totally ruined, and there's seriously _nothing_ he can do to stop it?"

"Is he gonna die soon?"

"H—" Oikawa frowned, pursed his lips. "Hopefully not?"

"Kageyama-kun, I have a question about the problem," Yachi chimed in, lowly raising her hand. "In this context, what constitutes total ruin?"

Oikawa fell silent.

"I'm trying to think about what exactly it means for a future to be totally ruined, but Hinata kind of has a point. If he's not dead or dying, then there'll always be something for him to do. I guess—I guess a future can be ruined if you consider what path he was initially planning to take. Like, say, this certain dream of his can no longer be fulfilled. But even if that happens, there's always other dreams, or if not outright dreams, just other things to fix to form a new path, and then new actions to take after that. Is there really a situation so bad that there's _nothing_ left to do?"

"Yachi-san, that's really smart!" Hinata cried, grin wide. "But what if—what if this guy's a total hard head and doesn't want any other paths to follow for the future, but that path is really impossible. Will he be ruined then?"

"Um, well, I wonder about what it means for a path to be impossible too. I mean, there can be paths that are hard, but for it to be really impossible is kind of, um. I don't know."

"Like my volleyball match with Kageyama and middle school."

"Yeah. There was still kind of a chance that you could've won, even if it was small, so I think it's good that you stayed positive for the whole game! Being positive is really helpful, I think, so there's that. But—hmm, for purposes of Kageyama-kun's problem, if it really is impossible and that's a sure thing, then maybe he'll be ruined, yeah. But only because he closed his mind off, not because life was completely unfair."

"Ooh, yeah, that makes sense. So, Kageyama, what—Kageyama?"

Different sorts of words were swimming inside Oikawa's head now, ones that brought an ache and an excited thumping in his chest, but not of the same kind as the previous night and the entirety of the morning. He remembered Kageyama and his baseless confidence, bent over homework sheets and notes that weren't his to understand. He remembered himself, working himself to the bone in the middle of winter and past the end of practice to perfect a toss he wasn't supposed to know about. And somehow, it felt like their dark tunnel was catching light again, through tiny creaks in the barricade he'd thought was a dead end, and suddenly things weren't as heavy as they were before.

To hope for the best but prepare for the worst, and to overcome obstacles with calm and grace—these were some of his governing principles in volleyball, or at least they had been, back when he still spent his late nights watching game tapes and trying to estimate the otherwise unpredictable, but they applied to life as well as they did to sport. Being hopeless in a hopeless situation was counterproductive, would only have him moping and spacing out like Hinata told him he'd been. Assuming that they were at the end would be the beginnings of their defeat, would kill all of their remaining chances however miniscule they appeared to be, and it would be an insult to everything that Oikawa and his decidedly-determined character stood for. Nothing became impossible until you told yourself it was. If you didn't believe in yourself, then who would?

And like that, his mind seemed to clear. The whole thing was other-worldly, like magic, and they could only counter magic with magic, but if there was one thing that the useless slip of a fortune inside a half-baked cookie had told them (and Oikawa honestly couldn’t believe he’d forgotten), it was that they had something not quite as fantastical, but magical enough, close enough, to counter with.

Love. They could still be saved by selfless love. In what form, Oikawa didn't really know. What he _did_ know, what he did realize just now, was that all this time, they'd been wholeheartedly preparing for the worst and never hoping for the best, and that Kageyama—only in his first year of high school, his first year of belonging to a team that needed and wanted him—was supposed to step on the national stage in a few weeks and yet hadn't seen his own gym, hadn't synched with his spikers, hadn't been catching any practices this entire time.

He was going to have to fix that. "Yachi-san," Oikawa said, and Yachi sat at attention once again. "You have a phone, right?"

"Um, yes?"

"That can take videos?"

"Yes. Why?"

Oikawa stood up, bent himself almost a complete, desperate ninety degrees. "Could I ask you to please film practice for me? Every day until we go to Nationals?"

Two equally-startled noises sounded from above him, but he didn't look up. It was a lot to ask, especially since Yachi had her own things to do as a manager during the practices themselves, but Oikawa was completely ready to beg or offer any compensation that Kageyama would be able to, if their souls were reversed. Neither of them could give up now. Kageyama couldn't let himself cease to be amazing. Oikawa would learn his toss and take it to Nationals if need be, but like hell he was going to go down without fighting for Kageyama's hard-earned right to be in that gym and before that crowd, in the same way that Kageyama was probably fighting not to brand him the complete failure of Aoba Johsai’s graduating class.

The request was a big jump from his ‘hypothetical’ question, but Yachi thoughtfully hummed. “I don't mind, really, but my phone would probably ruin the picture a little. I have a camera, though. I could film and then add the videos onto a CD for you, if you'd like."

This time, he had to raise at least his head. "But—but wouldn't that be kind of bothersome? To do that every day?"

Yachi smiled, shrugged, and it was as though a ray of sun or some heavenly light was shining behind her golden head. "Not at all! I don't really mind, if it'll help you with your training."

She was an angel. This little golden girl was an angel, and Oikawa regretted all three years he spent in the Seijoh Volleyball Club without her as a manager. He straightened up, took a breath, bit back his smile, unaware of how that made his face appear (the way Hinata stared up at it in disgust and confusion was a pretty good hint, though). "Yachi-san, you're a blessing."

She jumped, blinked, and exchanged terrorized glances with Hinata, but Oikawa's mind and heart were racing too fast to care. He sat himself back down on their little bench and brought this afternoon's milk's straw to his lips, slurped until he was inhaling the carton and every ounce of material it was manufactured with, right then and there deciding that helpless moping was as unfitting for Kageyama as it was for him.

 

* * *

 

Even inside Oikawa’s brightly-lit room, Kageyama could feel something dark and heavy overtaking him, seated at his low desk and once again poring over fact after fact and equation after equation and trying to cram all of them inside his brain. He couldn’t recall ever feeling like this before, couldn’t qualify what _this_ even was, but as he struggled to keep reading a rather wordy page in one of Oikawa’s books and realized that he’d reached the end without registering a single letter, he set his head on the table, figured he could only boil it down to one thing.

He was so tired.

It was one thing to get worn out while exercising, to be exhausted by exertion, because he liked running and jumping and practicing anyway—but he’d been sitting on the floor for hours on end for the past few nights of the past week and more, staring at either a too-bright computer screen or text spewing complicated nonsense, and he badly wanted to stop but he didn’t think he could. Not when Oikawa’s grades and prospects were on the line, and everything had so much potential to fall apart, and one of the only solutions that they’d managed to formulate for themselves had vanished as quickly as it had come.

Sighing, Kageyama put his pen down and shut his eyes, scratched the back of neck, rubbed at his temples. He didn’t think he’d ever gone this long without attending an actual volleyball practice since the second grade. His arms were going to be like noodles when he got back. His legs would no longer have power. He’d broken Oikawa’s nail cutter and couldn’t find it in himself to tell his temporary mother and ask for a new one. He would try his best to salvage Oikawa’s future but lose himself in the process and they were both going to fail and live like lazy hermits on the streets. His hair would be this feathery brown mess that needed gel for as long as he lived and he wouldn’t even be able to afford having it fixed.

The sudden buzz of his phone was a shot straight to his heart, a crack in his bout of hysteria, and he jumped at the vibrations on the desk but picked the thing up more gratefully than dutifully, glad for the distraction, figured that if he was actually craving social interaction then he definitely had to be pushing himself too hard.

> **Ungrateful Brat [8:54 PM]  
>  ** merry christmas

Kageyama blinked at the text. He’d been so focused and busy all day—taking notes in class, going over them with Iwaizumi, running over to the post office for some deliveries and then heading straight home to get some work done—that he’d almost forgotten that it was Christmas and that other than sending greetings to Oikawa’s friends, there was also sending one to Oikawa himself, fresh from the last day of school and afternoon practice yet still somehow recalling better than he did. The two words on the phone screen were refreshing somehow, and Kageyama let out a calming breath, allowed himself to lie on the floor to stretch his back and type in two of his own.

‘Merry Christmas’—

Exclamation point? Period? Kageyama frowned, closed out of his message to check Oikawa’s once again, examined his roster of punctuations, and groaned and hit send.

> **Me [8:55 PM]  
>  ** Merry Christmas

There. He was fighting fire with fire, even if there was neither a fight nor fire.

> **Ungrateful Brat [8:55 PM]  
>  ** treat yourself

He frowned further.

> **Me [8:55 PM]  
>  ** What?
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [8:55 PM]  
>  ** it’s christmas but I don’t really have anything to give you and you’re in my body so buy yourself something nice, or something
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [8:55 PM]  
>  ** though if you don’t want to, that’s fine too. more money for me when I get back.
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [8:56 PM]  
>  ** but I’m just on the way home and I’m gonna get myself some muffins or something. I’m gonna give some to yachi too. is that okay?

And frowned even further. He knew Oikawa generally did better than him when it came to people (girls especially, or so he’d discovered over the course of several lunches he’d spent surrounded by them) but it was too early for him to form friendships with Kageyama’s acquaintances deep enough to merit muffins. Then again, Yachi _was_ really nice. She helped a lot with practice even though she barely knew anything about volleyball and let them copy off her notes. If there were anyone on the team he could give muffins to, other than all the third years who were pretty nice in their own ways too, it would definitely be her. She’d probably be really happy if she got muffins for Christmas. Kageyama couldn’t say he disapproved.

Other than that, though, Oikawa was presenting him with an opportunity here. He hadn’t yet used that ‘coupon’ he’d been given, permitting him to buy as much milk as he wanted at the grocery store, so he couldn’t say there was anything material he wanted to treat himself to, but there _was_ something he wanted, he realized as he glanced back at his study materials laid out on the desk and immediately felt contempt welling up in his system. He wondered if Oikawa would approve of it.

> **Me [8:57 PM]  
>  ** That’s fine. Could I ask for something too?
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [8:57 PM]  
>  ** well yeah, I just told you to treat yourself, right? what are you planning?
> 
> **Me [8:57 PM]  
>  ** I want to take a break from studying. Can I?

There was a long pause in between the message and Oikawa’s reply—one Kageyama couldn’t quite decipher. He wondered if Oikawa was mad, or if he was weighing the possible effect of letting Kageyama take the night off from the books and the catching up on lessons. But the answer he received didn’t tell him much either.

> **Ungrateful Brat [8:59 PM]  
>  ** how often have you been studying exactly?
> 
> **Me [9:00 PM]  
>  ** Um I don’t know, I just study whenever I have the time.
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:00 PM]  
>  ** during breaks? after school? at night?
> 
> **Me [9:00 PM]  
>  ** Yeah
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:00 PM]  
>  ** which one???
> 
> **Me [9:00 PM]  
>  ** All of them
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:01 PM]  
>  ** whaaat
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:01 PM]  
>  ** of course you can take a break what the hell. even I don’t study that much. go watch a movie on my computer or something. rest your brain

Kageyama beamed at the phone and the encouraging message displayed on it, but he didn’t think he could take any more sitting without losing all functionality in his legs completely. He got up, bent his knees and stayed in a satisfying lunge stretch and opened up the next text that came in. 

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:01 PM]  
>  ** or you can play volleyball

If it was possible, he beamed even more.

> **Me [9:01 PM]  
>  ** Where?
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:01 PM]  
>  ** it’s a little late to go out now so maybe you should just stay in my room. toss a little or whatever else you can do without running around too much
> 
> **Me [9:02 PM]  
>  ** Okay. Thank you very much, Oikawa-san. Merry Christmas!

He hadn’t even realized he’d added an exclamation point to his final line, too busy straightening himself up and making a beeline for the volleyball idly settled by Oikawa’s bedroom wall. It was a little softer than the regularly-maintained balls on the court were, probably from disuse, but Kageyama could make do with anything really, and the rubber against his hand was already incredible after so long of not having felt it. He clutched the thing with both hands and spun it, held it close to him, unaware that his smile was the brightest he’d worn since he left his body.

There wasn’t much practice that could be done in such a confined space, so he settled for some self-passing, simple and plain at first and later on a challenge of bringing the ball as far as he could and still managing to receive it properly without damaging any of Oikawa’s possessions. He mostly did a good job, the exception being when he’d tripped over his own bag scattered on the floor and nearly mauled Oikawa’s fancy desktop computer, and he felt light, free. But at the same time, a little sad.

He stopped the ball in his hands the minute the twinge of bitterness curdled in his chest. Being in Oikawa’s body was a lot of things—most of which he’d already learned to get used to and tolerate—but the worst thing about it had to be the distance from volleyball. He was no longer expected, needed, on the court no matter how badly both he and the actual Oikawa wanted to be on it. His team back at Karasuno was going to Nationals and yet he, their setter, had no reason to be practicing because he was here, in the body of a club-graduated third year, and it was pretty clear at this point that he wouldn’t be going with them. Oikawa was going in his stead, and though Kageyama had no doubt that he deserved it and that his team would be in capable hands because Oikawa was going to give it his all, and that Kageyama would give the entrance exams his all and everything would be fine, he hated it.

He wanted to go back to his own body, but he no longer had any clue how.

Still, he clutched his ball tightly, as if bringing it to his face and breathing in the scent of the rubber and all that it meant to him would clear his mind of any surliness, and rested it against his fingertips, tossed it against the wall like he would during matches and for his diverse group of spikers. High and away from the net for Azumane. Even higher for Tsukishima, because he could do it, Kageyama was sure. A multitude of configurations for Tanaka, who would surely hit it no matter what and hype himself up after. Just the right height and speed for Sawamura and Sugawara. A little slower for Ennoshita. Something nice and easy to hit for Narita, Kinoshita, and Yamaguchi.

And of course: something lightning quick, something specially-crafted and high effort, for Hinata.

“ _Tooru!”_

Kageyama jumped as the ball bounced back in his hands.

His door was locked but Oikawa’s mother frantically tried to slide it open anyway, rapped her fist against the wood when it refused to budge. “Is that you slamming your ball against the wall?” her muffled yet clearly impatient voice echoed from the hallway. “How many times have I told you not to do that? You’re going to ruin your own bedroom! Why are you even playing volleyball by yourself in there? Have you done your homework?”

“Yes,” Kageyama called out.

“Then get some sleep! You’d make better use of your time catching up on rest than playing with balls. Volleyball can wait until the snow’s cleared up and there’s nothing to do anymore.”

A half-formed agreement sat and quickly died on the tip of Kageyama’s tongue, replaced by a frustrated bite of the lip once his temporary mother’s footsteps disappeared down the hall along with her unnecessary muttering. He tried not to think badly of her, gave his ball an apologetic stare instead and returned it to its cold and lonesome spot on the floor. The clock told him he hadn’t been playing for even twenty minutes. He sighed, figured it was nice while it lasted, sat himself down on Oikawa’s futon, and grabbed his phone off the desk. He had some unread messages from Oikawa, it seemed.

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:02 PM]  
>  ** yeah, yeah

And then:

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:10 PM]  
>  ** tell me how it goes

He wished he could. Oikawa of all people would understand how badly he missed playing for real, how badly he wanted to toss and have others hit them and score points, how satisfying it was that he still memorized exactly what kind of tosses all the people that mattered needed even when he hadn’t seen them in weeks. But right now, more than longing and pride and a desire to make conversation with someone he barely spoke five unique sentences to when they first met, all he could feel was bitterness and a smidgeon of pity for Oikawa, who deserved more than the barely even half-assed support that his parents were giving him.

> **Me [9:23 PM]  
>  ** I stopped just now. Your mom got mad at me for tossing against the wall. She probably heard the noise. Sorry.

He didn’t think Oikawa would send an answer back anymore, that he’d probably occupied himself with something better than anticipating any of Kageyama’s messages, but to his surprise, his phone was buzzing in no time at all.

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:23 PM]  
>  ** oh
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:23 PM]  
>  ** that’s a shame. I guess you can try again tomorrow if she heads out. you can go to the yard. the snow doesn’t get bad until january anyway
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:23 PM]  
>  ** or

Kageyama blinked at the single word.

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:24 PM]  
>  ** if you can promise me you’ll bundle up properly and won’t catch a cold, she goes to bed at around half past 9 and the yard is a pretty far point away from their room. I don’t think they’ll hear you

And then he abruptly sat up.

> **Me [9:24 PM]  
>  ** Really?
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:24 PM]  
>  ** yup. don’t stay out too late though
> 
> **Ungrateful Brat [9:24 PM]  
>  ** and really, don’t be afraid to NOT study every once in a while. play volleyball whenever you feel like it. it’s fine. it’s good, even. trust me.

The holiday wasn’t celebrated in Japan the way it was in other countries, but Kageyama almost felt like a young child on Christmas morning greeted by an entire tree’s worth of brightly-wrapped presents. He rapidly typed in another message—

> **Me [9:25 PM]  
>  ** Thank you very much. Please get yourself and Yachi-san as many muffins as possible.

—waited for Oikawa’s reply—

> **Ungrateful Brat [9:25 PM]  
>  ** lol. sure.

—and set course for downstairs to check on his temporary parents, maybe get a glass of water while waiting for 9:30 to come back up for his ball.

 

* * *

 

He was running a little late already but before any of the first years could leave the club room after practice the next day, Oikawa slammed the door and leaned against it.

“We need to go out,” he declared, looking all of them in the eye, one at a time and with an unwavering seriousness.

“Well, we’d _like_ to be able to do that,” Tsukishima said, already fully-dressed and ready to exit with Yamaguchi at his tail, “but in case you haven’t noticed, you’re blocking our only exit.”

“That’s not what I meant, ass,” Oikawa spat back. “I meant we need to spend time together outside the court.”

For once displaying a sort of solidarity that they never did during practices or even games, Hinata and Tsukishima and Yamaguchi all exchanged scandalized glances, leaving Oikawa to stand before them crossing his arms and trying to ignore the minimal offense he was clearly taking.

“Uhh,” Hinata said, halfway through tying his shoelaces, “why? Not that I don’t want to, just—why? And why all of a sudden?”

“Because isn’t it kind of the normal thing to do?” Oikawa said. “A team is a team, sure, but teams change every year. We move up and eventually third years graduate and new people come in. The only thing that isn’t going to change is the fact that the four of us are going to be on the same team until it’s our turn to graduate. Sawamura-san and the others are going to go, Ennoshita-san and the others are going to go, but we’re going to see each other for two more years. We’re the only ones who are going to be keeping a connection. Kind of like the way the third years right now are close, and the way the second years are always hanging out and making fun of each other. It applies to us, too.

“And not just in a friendly context either. Oikawa-san has been friends with the ace of their team since they were kids and they’ve spent so much time together that their levels of trust and coordination during games kind of reflect that too. And with the two other third year regulars on the team, they always interact comfortably and manage to share their ideas, no problem. Establishing connections like that with teammates is important, and if we’re going for a team of maximum efficiency, then we need to know more about each other as people, not just as players.”

It was a pretty reasonable line of thinking, if Oikawa did say so himself, but Tsukishima’s hum was both skeptical and off-putting. “I like how you always manage to add Oikawa-san into pretty much every volleyball-related conversation you’re having. He must really be a hero to you, huh?”

“Wait, what? I mean—“ Oikawa shook his head, shook it free of wandering thoughts and lingering curiosities (Tobio talks about me often?) to keep in character and try to get back on track. “No. Did you listen to anything I said? Can we hang out more or not?”

“I vote Not.”

“Yeah? Well, too bad, your vote is only one in four. What do you two think?”

He kept Tsukishima’s sour look in his peripheral vision and focused, instead, on Hinata and Yamaguchi, whose faces were a little more agreeable.

“I’m okay with it,” Yamaguchi said. “It could be fun.”

“Yeah. And if it’s for the team, then all the better,” Hinata followed up.

Inwardly wondering if any of these guys knew what it was like to have an actual close group of friends with no ulterior motive, Oikawa nodded at them. “So that’s three against one. Tough luck, Tsukishima. We’re going out.”

Tsukishima looked dead inside. “Who did you meet at training camp,” he said, “and what the hell did they tell you to make you even more annoying than you were before?”

In truth, Kageyama had met and interacted with Miya Atsumu—whom Oikawa had always thought to be pretty annoying in his own right—and so he could probably reason out that an epidemic of ‘annoying’ had sprung from him and spread out like disease, but the question was probably rhetorical, and anyway, he needed all of his energy to bite back his smile and had none to spare for giving an answer. “That’s settled, then,” he did say after a while. “Are you all free after practice on Friday?”

“Nope.”

“Yeah you are, Tsukki.”

The glare of utter murder that Tsukishima threw at a sheepishly-smiling Yamaguchi made it all the harder to keep a straight face. Maybe getting to know these guys outside their chosen sport was going to be interesting after all.

“I’m free too,” Hinata said, finally managing to finish with his shoes. “Where are we gonna go?”

“We’ll figure it out some other time. I have to go,” Oikawa said, picking his bag up off the floor and hurriedly pulling at the door eager to get back to the gym, only to jump and stop short in an effort not to collide with Yachi, standing right by the door with a fist raised.

“Oh! I was just about to knock,” she said, reaching into the bag slung on her shoulder and pulling out a CD case. “Here’s the video of yesterday’s practice, Kageyama-kun. I’ll compile the one for today and give it to you tomorrow. Could you give me thsis one back soon, so that we can just recycle after every few days?”

Oikawa felt his chest swell with a warmth and a chill he couldn’t explain at the sight of the disc, and he gave the most courteous, heart-felt bow he could muster as he took it. “Yes, not a problem. Thank you so much, Yachi-san.”

“It was nothing. Thanks again for the muffins!”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Oikawa stowed the case away inside of his own bag, sent another quick bow goodbye Yachi’s way, and hurried out of the room and down the stairs and away from Karasuno, hoping he hadn’t kept Kageyama waiting too long.

 

* * *

 

> **Ungrateful Brat [10:45 PM]  
>  ** oh I forgot to say. meet me at kitaichi tomorrow after our practice.

Kageyama leaned against the wall of their usual meeting spot behind Kitagawa Daiichi, eyes nowhere but the message Oikawa had sent him late last night after he’d come back from volleyball in the yard. They hadn’t met at their old middle school since he started coming over for tutoring and there really hadn’t been a reason to anymore—but there was now, apparently; a reason that Oikawa insisted needed to be kept secret until they actually met up for reasons that he’d also frustratingly kept secret when Kageyama had asked. He didn’t know what to expect, exactly, but he guessed that if Oikawa was this adamant about it, then it had to be important.

The last time they met up at this exact spot was still fresh in his mind. He'd been wrapped in an anxiety he'd never felt before as he approached the waiting Oikawa, had to steel himself to confess the realizations he came to that day—realizations of his own intellectual incapability, realizations that Oikawa's future was quite literally in mortal danger—bad news, to put it simply. The worst possible news there was, pushing the realization that Oikawa didn't know how to perform Hinata's toss in second, and Kageyama couldn't quite imagine something that could top it, but right now he was vulnerable and very, unnecessarily open to ideas.

Of course, meeting up didn't necessarily mean that Oikawa was about to lay out more problems for them to trouble themselves over, and he breathed, tried to keep his mind clear. Whatever all of this really was about, he just had to hope that both of them would make it home today in one piece.

In no time at all, Oikawa sprang up from a distance, practically running towards Kageyama given the urgency of his power-walk, and the suddenness of his appearance and the briskness of his movements did nothing to soothe Kageyama's nerves. His eyes were wide and stared straight ahead, and it was his own face but Kageyama found he couldn't read it or extract a specific emotion out of it. He almost wanted to guess that Oikawa was angry, but he'd seen Oikawa angry before, and the entire look of it was different. He supposed he could boil his paranoia down to the fact that his face wasn't the most pleasant in the world. He'd have to apologize to Hinata and the others for getting mad whenever they mentioned it.

“Hey,” Oikawa greeted once he was well within range. He definitely wasn't angry, Kageyama thought, everything about him rushed and excited rather than irritated. He didn't look like he was bearing the crushing weight of a brand new conflict to resolve either. “How long did you wait?”

“Not too long,” Kageyama replied, and it was the truth. He didn’t think he could reply with anything else, in actuality, too busy trying to parse what the expression on his own body’s face was trying to tell him, trying to guess what Oikawa was actually about to tell him. “Do you have something you want to talk about?”

“A few things,” Oikawa said. “First of all: when are you going to be free for practice?”

Kageyama blinked at the mention of 'practice', the awful tension in his chest and stomach disappearing with the quick flutter of his eyelashes and transforming into a churning of a different sort, the kind that only volleyball could bring him. This time, however, there was something new and alien in the mix, a brand new butterfly dancing with his insides at the thought of not only volleyball, but volleyball with Oikawa. It was strictly business, he knew, and a completely serious endeavour because time didn't slow down for anyone and before they knew it, Nationals would be just around the corner, but his eyes brightened anyway, body leaned forward without his consent anyway.

“What about Friday?” he suggested.

Oikawa made a face. “Mm, no, Friday’s no good. I have a…thing. What about Saturday? I think we have the day off then so we could use the whole day.”

“Yeah, that’d be good.” Kageyama nodded vigorously, never mind what ‘thing’ Oikawa might be doing on a Friday night in his body. “I can bring your ball too so that we can have more to use. I think it might need air, though.”

“Okay, sure. Now…for the other thing.”

All the excitement that had been flowing out of him vanished, his pause butchering the one that had also briefly stirred in Kageyama. He was silent as he opened his bag and reached inside for a thorough search, so silent that Kageyama thought that maybe it really _was_ bad news that he brought with him after all, and that something inside his bag was the key to the reveal of yet another aspect of their lives about to fall apart. But though his rummaging hadn't finished, Oikawa met his eyes, and Kageyama saw a glow. His eyes were bright, smiling in a way that a mouth alone could not, and they were locked on Kageyama’s face like he was the reason they shone the way they did.

When his hand resurfaced, he held a CD case in between his fingers.

Kageyama stared as it was handed to him, figured it didn't seem destructive. "What is it?"

Oikawa's eyes were still wide and brilliant as he bit his lip and took a breath. "I've been thinking," he said, "and...actually, I've been thinking so much that it started becoming too much and I ended up asking your teammates for advice, but—"

He took another breath, seemed to compose himself, and when he met Kageyama's gaze again he was completely serious, reflective, a little curled in on himself. "When you said that it was like the cookies didn't actually exist, I...pretty much imploded. I got really scared, because tying this whole situation to those cookies was the only lead we had, and suddenly it was just gone and there wasn't a way out anymore. I started thinking about having to do this forever, me living in your body and you living in mine, and I didn't want that—I don't want that, but I didn't know what else there was to do to prevent it. I was thinking about giving up trying to switch back, because if there really was no way, what would be the point in trying, right?"

At the brief pause, Kageyama nodded, slowly. He didn't know where this was going, but he did know that this was Oikawa's first time sharing anything with him like this, and whatever brought it on and whatever it would lead up to, he badly wanted to listen.

"So I thought maybe instead of worrying about the cookies and the switching, I should just try my best to become you because I was going to be you from then on. It sucked to think about, but I really did feel like that's all that was left."

And then Oikawa straightened up. "But then I realized there was something I forgot. From the get go, it wasn't the cookies that we were depending on to take us back; it was the fortune that they gave us. Uh—of course, both you and I still have no idea how exactly we're going to, um, show selfless love, or something, but what really got me back on my feet was that—I realized there's still a way. It's a hard way and a vague way and 'what the hell does that even mean' way, but it's a way. And—"

He swallowed, the corners of his lips turning up briefly. "Nothing becomes impossible until you tell yourself that it is. It might be hard, but it's never going to get done if we don't try. It might be dumb of us to keep hoping that some magic's gonna happen and we're gonna switch back, but it's even dumber _not_ to hope, because _that's_ legitimately going to get us nowhere, and it's just going to make us really grumpy. But if we hold onto the hope and stay optimistic, then—you know, we can function as normal human beings and we're gonna keep working, so technically it's more progress even if it kind of useless. Am—am I making sense?"

His thought process was loaded, but yes, he made sense, and Kageyama understood completely. It'd be a lie to say that similar thoughts hadn't plagued him at one point in time, and it was good to know that his fear was justified and wasn't his alone, and that Oikawa had managed to get advice (probably from Yachi, Kageyama realized; hence, the muffins) good enough to get him back on his feet.

But he couldn't help but glance at the CD. "Yes, but," Kageyama started, "that doesn't explain what this is."

Oikawa let out an exasperated sigh—or at least, Kageyama _thought_ it was exasperated, but he didn't have his usual condescending face on. "I realized we shouldn't give up hope on switching back just yet," he said, "and following along with that line of thinking, that would mean that you're lagging behind the rest of your team, and we can't have that. Especially if we manage to switch back before Nationals comes. I asked Yacchan to film practice everyday and she volunteered to burn it onto a disc for me, _everyday_ , and I'm going to give you the discs here every afternoon. So now, you get to see what happens at practice."

The words didn't register at first, the part of Kageyama's brain that processed sentences having stopped at 'Yacchan' because he only ever heard the upperclassmen call her that, but once they did, Kageyama's first instinct hadn't been to reply, but to blink at the CD—which apparently had all of yesterday's practice saved onto it—then blink at Oikawa—who had commissioned it—then blink at the CD again— _yesterday's practice is saved on this_ —and then blink at nothing in particular, blink himself into coherency, try and wrap his head around the fact that Oikawa didn't want him to miss out on his own practices anymore and had Yachi film practices, asked her to do it _everyday_ , and he was going to get to see practice _everyday_ because Oikawa believed he still had a chance to go to Nationals and he was going to kick ass at Nationals because Yachi burned this CD for him because Oikawa asked her to—

His body finally catching up to his mind, Kageyama impulsively snatched the case away from Oikawa's hands, caught it when it nearly fell, and held it close to his face like he could watch the match by zeroing in on the little hole in the middle. Eyes wide, he looked to Oikawa. "I'm—"

"Ecstatic? Grateful? In your debt, Oikawa-san? You better be," Oikawa cut him off, lips quirked up in a smile that Kageyama'd never seen before, couldn't qualify and didn't have the capacity to. "Oh, and just in case you aren't sure, this is me giving you permission to take time off of studying everyday to watch volleyball."

What Kageyama had thought would be the delivery of bad news became a bombardment of really, really good ones and he couldn't pull enough concrete joy out of his system to express. He clutched tightly at the gift he'd been given—and he'd be given _everyday;_ no, he was never going to get over that—and looked Oikawa straight in the eye, tried to keep from smiling lest its sheer ugliness ruin the mood. "Thank you so much!" he cried loudly, half of his body dipping towards the floor in the lowest bow he'd ever given anyone, even Oikawa himself from that time when he'd needed to embarrass himself for the sake of advice. What a long way they'd come since then. "You—" Kageyama stood upright. "You also have my permission to...um, to—to do whatever you like!"

Oikawa raised an eyebrow, lips still trapped in an amused smile.

"And I promise I'll work twice as hard!"

"You were already studying everytime you weren't in class. How much harder can you even work? You gonna start studying _during_ class, too?"

"If I have to!"

"Don't," Oikawa clarified with a little roll of the eyes, lifting his hand and bringing it to Kageyama's shoulder only to stop it midway—and then allow it to lightly propel Kageyama forward, in the same way that Sawamura often did to Azumane when he was "being ridiculous". "Just get home and watch the video. You look you're gonna explode if you don't get to in the next five minutes."

"I won't," Kageyama assured, but he didn't fight Oikawa's push, backpedaled even while sending another bow Oikawa's way. "Thank you so much, Oikawa-san. Really. Thank you. Oh—"

He cut his final step short, looked to Oikawa and his now-curious expression. "The same goes for you too, then," he said. "You're really behind on your lessons."

Closely watching Oikawa’s mildly startled face, Kageyama fiddled with his bag strap, right in that moment trying to craft a concrete way in which the act of kindness he'd received could be repayed. "Um, my notes aren't as organized or colourful as yours, but I think they're readable. I'll take pictures of them and the assignments every night and send them to you so you can study them too and, you know, prepare for your entrance tests. Is that okay?"

"Wow, I give you games to watch, and you give me homework," Oikawa remarked, crossing his arms and smiling before Kageyama could protest. "Kidding. That’d be good. Thank you."

They both seemed to start at the words, Kageyama's heart doing a little unnecessary jump like he'd never been thanked before. He held the CD closer to himself, reminded himself what he was supposed to be excited about, and gave Oikawa a nod and one final wave goodbye when it finally beat accordingly, to the rhythm of his anticipation to feel integrated into his own volleyball team for the first time in weeks, the rhythm of his appreciation for what was honestly the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for him in the last few years, the rhythm of whatever other emotion came with the bewilderment that it was Oikawa who'd done it for him.

That rhythm was fast and noisy, unmatched even by the fast pace he employed on his walk home. But it became even faster halfway through the journey, now also beating to the rhythm of the realization that this might have been the first time Oikawa had ever thanked him for anything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kageyama isn’t used to the lifestyle of the ~~author~~ athletically-inactive. 
> 
> also!!! for those of you who don’t know yet, another [oikage week](http://oikageweek.tumblr.com/post/169942825136/oikage-week-april-2018) is upon us! the prompts have been released and the thing runs from the 13th of april (Friday the 13th, a lucky day for yours truly, and hopefully the rest of you as well) up till the 20th with the theme: AUs. i’m kind of,, laughing because last year my own theme to deal with the quote prompts was AUs and simply put: holy shit not again lord why but I’ll be doing my best to participate again!! and if you’re reading this, I hope you do too! any and all content is appreciated for our beloved ship <3


	12. the yesterdays we shake off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oikawa and Kageyama (and the rest of Seijoh) are more than ready to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! i did nothing for oikage week and believe me, no one is more disappointed in me than i am (no one's missing much ngl), but a lot went on in the last month and i had to uhhhh get some of that mental and emotional stability for a bit so i decided not to push myself. iM SO STOKED ABOUT HOW MUCH CONTENT IS POPPING UP THO!!! HOLY SHIT Y'ALL ARE INCREDIBLE!!!! i'm going to read them all soon ghgugh but you're all mvps dudes. mvps
> 
> oh and i forgot to advertise last update's art because i advertised so many other arts lol so [here it is](http://kakkoweeb.tumblr.com/post/170375714167/fic-update-oikage). and here's [the one for this chapter](http://nishi-key.tumblr.com/post/173224024763/fic-update-oikage) as well in case you wanna, you know. **_~~reblog~~_**

There was something about Oikawa—the way he moved, how little he spoke, everything he did—that made Kindaichi uneasy.

He was at practice again today, though popular opinion dictated that he should've been at home enjoying his break or settling matters regarding his future, and for the first time, he was alone. Not that that made the team less enthusiastic, but the way Oikawa had blinked at everyone when they'd pointed it out, said, "Oh, I didn't tell anyone else I was coming. Should I have?" before shrugging and situating himself in the least bothersome space possible was so strange it was almost out of character. But really, Kindaichi was in no place to be making judgments about Oikawa's character, and so he went about practice, tried not to notice how thoroughly Oikawa would sometimes watch him.

It was a little terrifying, but it at least made him feel better about watching right back.

Right now, he was onstage, feet dangling over the edge, a single hand clutching tightly onto the piece of bread he was quite literally devouring. Contrary to well-known belief, Oikawa was no prince; Kindaichi had seen him ungracefully flailing around more times than he could count, whether it was during practice or while stuffing himself with ramen after an upsetting match. But Kindaichi couldn't quite find a reasonable rationale for today's lack of finesse, or the way Oikawa seemed to bite into his snack like it was the head of his greatest enemy, or the way his eyebrows knitted together as he took stock of the row of three-on-threes happening before him. He didn't _seem_ angry (actually Kindaichi didn't think anyone other than Iwaizumi knew what he looked like when he was angry). A tad too serious, perhaps? Thinking hard?

Whatever it was, it reminded Kindaichi of something—from the way he glared at everyone like they were door-to-door salesmen to the way he aggressively chewed what looked like a pretty soft and creamy piece of bread—or someone. Kageyama, he realized quickly once he'd acknowledged the familiarity, but a little bit different. Looking at Kageyama and his terrible mood a year ago was frightening, irritating, and it had Kindaichi craving to leave no matter where they were or what was going on. But right now, seeing the very mannerisms on someone else, Kindaichi felt a little weird, sure, but also refreshed, somehow endeared. Like he wasn't looking at a demon King of the Court but a guy who just didn't know how to pull a friendlier face, a King of the Dorks, to put a label on it.

Of course, this was Oikawa, not Kageyama, he told himself. Oikawa had always been a little bit of a dork, though nowhere near this quiet, and Kageyama wasn't the only one in the world who could look this mad while doing regular things. Kindaichi boiled it down to Oikawa having a lot on his mind, gave a small but joyous wave once they locked eyes, and grinned when Oikawa meekly waved back.

Something about the wave reminded him of Kageyama too, maybe back in their first year of middle school before things blew up, but he'd think about that later.

 

* * *

 

Oikawa opened his mouth to speak, but barely managed a, "Hey—" before a pillow was thoroughly smacking him in the face.

So maybe he hadn't exactly thought their little outing through, but Oikawa had always believed in the beauty of spontaneity, and had shown up to practice completely prepared to stand before his rag-tag team of fellow first years and ask them where they might want to spend the rest of their afternoon. Tsukishima had tried to leave but they did eventually decide to first get a bite out, after which Hinata had so generously offered his house as their next stop and took it upon himself to haul Tsukishima there by the left arm, Yamaguchi manning the right, once he'd attempted another escape. Hinata's mother was overjoyed to see her son's volleyball friends for the first time (how detached were these people?), but even happier was his fireball little sister Natsu, who'd latched onto them immediately and demanded that they spend the entire night catering to her every whim.

Now, after several rounds of piggy back and the floor is lava and super princess rescue, they were on the floor, on all fours, Natsu atop her throne and chucking pillows at them while they crawled in an attempt to 'usurp her castle'. It was a lot more creative than the games Takeru used to make up at her age, and required just enough attention to allow Oikawa's mind to drift off to more important matters while giving Natsu the attention she craved.

Her giggle was high-pitched and wickedly delighted. "Got you, Tobio-san!"

"Yeah, you did," Oikawa said, grimacing, rubbing his aching nose and half-heartedly hurtling the pillow back towards her in some sort of counterattack. She squealed as she ducked below it, and cried out in triumph at the ammunition that had been restored to her kingdom. Oikawa tried not to smile, turned to the others as she performed her victory dance. "Hey, do any of you know a place to practice volleyball over the weekend? Like a public gym or something?"

"If this is you inviting us to practice more with you on the weekends, you've got another thing coming," Tsukishima muttered from his spot on Hinata's carpet.

"We already do have practice on the weekends, though," Yamaguchi pointed out, glancing at Hinata yelling praise at his little sister for nailing 'Kageyama' right on target. "If you just want to do some extra, you could always wait until ours is over and then start your own private practice. You've done it before, right?"

"Well—" Oikawa didn't know that. "Sure. But it's a little different from just my private practice."

"How so?"

"Uhh, I practice with someone…who's not allowed inside Karasuno's gym. Or Karasuno, in general."

Hinata gasped. "Kageyama-kun has friends from other schools? Is the world endi—" He gave an ugly _ouf_ as Natsu's next round of large, fluffy bullets assaulted his face.

The dialogue could very well have come out of Oikawa's mouth not too long ago, but his stance was a little different now—now that he was living in Kageyama's body and the irritating sarcasm was technically directed at him. He scowled, proudly declared, "I do," and figured that it was the truth. "Though that's not something you'd know about, Hinata."

"I have friends outside school too!"

"Shouldn't you work on making some inside first?"

" _You're one to talk!"_

"So do you guys know a place or not?"

Tsukishima shook his head and adjusted his glasses, raising his hands up just in time to block another incoming attack from high authority, as Yamaguchi and Hinata gave it a little more thought. Oikawa was starting to sense a pattern here.

"Schools aren't the only one who have teams, right?" Yamaguchi said. "Like, the Karasuno Neighborhood Association team has to have a gym they play in sometimes."

"Karasuno Neighborhood Association?"

Yamaguchi cocked his head to the side. "Yeah? You know, we played a match against them before? And they're always cheering for us—well, they're always the _only ones_ cheering for us at our games?"

"Oh, right."

"Old man Kageyama."

"Shut up, idiot," Oikawa quickly said, before remembering that 'dumbass' was the most appropriate word for the situation involving Kageyama's little shrimp. Ah, well. Variety was the spice of life. He turned to the ever-helpful Yamaguchi. "Do you know where to find them so I can ask about their gym? I'll need it for at least a few hours tomorrow."

Hinata snorted. "Really, Kageyama, why does it seem like you don't know anything? Of course Yamaguchi knows where to find them. He's been going to Shimada-san's store for weeks practicing his float serves, remember?"

So _that_ was where he suddenly learned his float serves. Oikawa raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"Wh—what's with that face; you look scary," Yamaguchi stammered, backing away, and though having a terrifying face was a universal truth for the body he was in, the context wasn't quite right. Oikawa tried to shake himself out of his exasperation for those _god damn jump floaters, scoring so many points—_ "Anyway, yeah. We can always go to Shimada Mart later on the way home. Or maybe it's too late. Are you good tomorrow morning?"

Natsu's piercing shriek echoed in the room, and they looked over to find Tsukishima grabbing her from the top of her attack tower as she flailed and thrashed around with the most pleased grin Oikawa had ever seen on a child.

"Tsukki-san got me! Nii-chan, help!"

"Tsukishima! Unhand the chief of princess warriors!"

"Oh my god," Tsukishima said.

"Yeah, tomorrow's good," Oikawa told Yamaguchi, glad to finally be able to get up and dust Hinata's carpet dust off of his uniform. "Now what do we do next?"

 

* * *

 

"What did you get for number eight?"

"Uhh, fifty."

"What? Why?"

"What do you mean ‘why'? That’s what I got."

"My answer’s different."

"Let me see your solution."

Kageyama slouched in his seat, reluctantly handed his answer sheet over to Hanamaki, apparently the most reliable in their group at high school Calculus, and tried to glimpse Matsukawa’s answers over his shoulder. They and a bunch of Iwaizumi’s (and, Kageyama supposed, Oikawa’s as well) other third year friends were seated at a solitary library table a good distance away from the librarian should the discussions get heated, some of their most despised subject matter laid out before them ready for great perusal. Shido’s face was practically buried in his English notes, Yuda was focusing on Science, and Kageyama had all of his textbooks stacked before him just to be sure.

It hadn’t been his idea, this ‘study in a big group’ thing. All he’d wanted was a few hours a week with Iwaizumi, going over the lessons and the things Kageyama didn’t have the time to ask the teachers after class. But when he’d asked yesterday afternoon, his supposed best friend had fallen silent, frowned, and pulled him to a corner of the hallway where they could actually hear each other.

"Oikawa, aren’t you working a little too hard?" he’d asked, and for the first time, Kageyama could physically see the worry on his face.

'Oikawa' was, probably, given that his friends had repeatedly said he was smart and didn't need to study for tests to pass them, but Kageyama had only just begun. He wished there was a way to tell Iwaizumi that, to involve him in this ridiculously big and heavy secret and get some of the load off of their crumbling shoulders, but he bit his lip, looked Oikawa's most cherished friend in the eye with what he hoped was an earnest expression.

"It's important to me," was all he said, "so please."

Iwaizumi had stared him down, in turn, with his own earnest and calculating expression, and sighed. That was always a good sign when it came to him, Kageyama found. "Fine," he said. "But I don't know why you insist on coming to just _me_ for this. You know I can only really help you with Chemistry; you and the others are better than me at everything else. Maybe we can arrange a group study with them next time. You'll get to learn and practice more with more input from people who actually know what they're talking about. I'll tell them for you."

Kageyama hadn't quite liked that idea as much, constantly falling victim to intimidation and confusion regarding some of Oikawa's more flamboyant friends who liked to joke around in ways Kageyama couldn't comprehend, but he'd be nothing but a weakling if he let his apprehension get the better of his dire need to learn English. It wasn't all bad, anyway. Today was apparently a serious day for this rambunctious bunch, and they sat quietly at the table, eyebrows knitted, minds nowhere but the work, mouths opening either to ask questions or mildly complain about exhaustion or hunger but never moving.

It felt like Kageyama was being given a whole other perspective of who they were. He rather liked that.

"Hey." Hanamaki gave him a tap on the shoulder. "This part here's wrong. You're not allowed to do this."

"Why not?" Kageyama asked, squinting at the equations by Hanamaki's fingertip.

"Oikawa, I hate to break this to you, but I only follow the rules, not explain them. I'm not Archimedes. There's a _limit_ to my knowledge on all of this."

Matsukawa snorted, and they clapped their hands together. Kageyama blinked at them, looked over his notes again.

"But I don't understand. I just copied what I did for one of the problems from—oh."

"There you go."

"Oh."

"Do it again, buddy."

"Damn it."

"Hey, Oikawa?" Sawauchi cut in, putting his Physics book down for the first time that afternoon, the margins of the page filled with his chicken scratch solutions to some of the practice problems. Kageyama glimpsed one he solved the night before. "Can I ask you something?"

"You have to use the complement of the angle in the drawing for the angle variable in the formula."

"What—oh, really? Thanks! But that's not what I wanted to ask."

"What is it?"

He took a breath. "Are you doing okay?"

Kageyama's hand froze over his Math problem. And unbeknownst to him, the entire table had stopped working. "What do you mean?"

"Just—just that. How are you doing? You good?"

Kageyama stared at him, and then at all other eyes glued to his response, swallowed. "Yes—yeah?" he tried, but none of them relaxed. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Nothing. Nothing, you know, just—" It didn't seem like nothing when Sawauchi exchanged glances with Iwaizumi, who jerked his head towards the table as if to instruct him to get back to work. "Just checking because you matter to me, that's all."

"You matter to me too!" Yuda chimed in.

"Yeah, yeah, Oikawa matters, now can you all get back to work and _stop acting like the guy's dying?"_ Iwaizumi said through gritted teeth, making a point to aggressively stare at his own study materials all the while perhaps to encourage the others to do the same. And they did.

But Kageyama couldn't, not now that Matsukawa was repeatedly and rapidly banging his pencil on his book and Yuda kept stealing glances at him like he would disintegrate when no one was paying attention, and Iwaizumi was still glaring too hard to be actually studying and Sawauchi looked like he regretted everything he'd done in the last ten years. This wasn't the way they usually were; they were too quiet, too cooperative, weren't making any jokes, and for the first time since they met up this afternoon, Kageyama was beginning to think it wasn’t because they were taking this as seriously as he was.

Iwaizumi hadn't called him a name since yesterday, he realized. He hadn't heard an exasperated _Oikawa Tooru_ from Hanamaki since yesterday. No one had ganged up on him since yesterday. He hadn't had to defend himself or else pretend to be offended since yesterday, and _these_ were the things that he felt comprised Oikawa's friendship with the third years of his volleyball club: teasing and banter and light conversation about trivial things. At the very least, he'd certainly never been told that he 'mattered' (whatever _that_ meant), and people like Iwaizumi only ever asked how he was feeling whenever he screwed up and acted not quite like Oikawa.

He stiffened, glanced at every individual now unnecessarily hyper-focused on their work. Were they like this _because_ they could tell something was up?

Kageyama tilted his head towards his books, but his eyes lingered on Iwaizumi furiously studying his own disorganized notes. In middle school, there was no one else Kageyama saw by Oikawa's side more often than Iwaizumi, though he never did understand their relationship, when Oikawa was teasing and Iwaizumi was yelling more than half the time. They must have liked at least some things about each other if they'd managed to stay side-by-side for this long, Kageyama figured only when he'd found himself having normal conversations with his temporary best friend, but it seemed he'd underestimated just how much Oikawa meant to Iwaizumi and vice versa, how far they'd both go to make sure the other was all right.

He wondered if the same could be said about the others seated at their table, the others who observably found a lot of entertainment in laughing at him. Oikawa was their teammate for three years, their captain for one, and though Kageyama had no doubt that they appreciated him when he was tossing their way to victory, he had no idea what Oikawa was like around them outside the court, whether they liked him there, whether Kageyama had been doing anything right these past few weeks. Oikawa had instructed him to eat lunch and converse but that had been it. He'd tried his best at that, but that couldn't possibly have really been _it_. Oikawa was a popular guy, seemingly the friend of the universe, the kind people talked about on the streets and in their family living rooms. What was he really like around people his age? What was he like beyond the compliments he gave girls who cooked for him?

What was he like outside what he let Kageyama see?

His thoughts too provoked to keep processing mathematical jargon, Kageyama set his pencil atop his work sheet and stared everyone down. "Can I ask you all a question?"

At once, every feverishly studying third year was nodding, all eyes on him.

He tried not to crumble other the intensity of their gazes. "What...do you think about me? As a person?"

Their already enlarged eyes grew further, the vast majority of the assembly nervously glancing at one another like the question was a hurdle they had to strategize for, with the exception of Yuda, who stole one look at Iwaizumi and then took a breath, laid his hand on top of Kageyama's, and said with a face that looked like it was about to cry, "I love you."

Kageyama gawked at him.

"You're coming on a little too strong, Yuda," Matsukawa noted.

"It's true, though! Tooru, you're one of the best and most inspirational friends I've ever had, and I'm so proud of everything you've achieved since I met you, and I'm so— _so_ happy that I met you! I'm so glad I stayed in the volleyball club even if I never became a regular or got better than the first years! I'm really happy to have had you as captain! I—"

"Okay, Yudacchi, that's enough," Hanamaki beside him soothed, gently prying his hand away from Kageyama's and patting it while Yuda took calming breaths. He looked like he was trying really hard not to burst into tears and Kageyama had absolutely no idea why. "Give the rest of us a turn at it, yeah? Anything to say, Shido?"

"Uh, yeah, everything that Yuda said, but maybe a little less cheesy," Shido said, laughing as Yuda gave a very loud sniffle. Kageyama seriously wished he had a tissue or something to give the guy. "Actually, I'd heard of Oikawa way back in middle school and I always thought he was some scary guy I wouldn't be able to stand being teammates with, kinda like Ushiwaka, but it was pretty easy to see I was wrong within the first few months of training."

"You thought I was like Ushiwaka?" Kageyama asked, just for the hell of it. Oikawa would probably take a lot of offense at that.

"I didn't think about it that much; I know you're _way better_ than Ushiwaka now. Oh—and I'm not buttering you up or anything, okay? That's completely honest."

"For me, I think that you're a really surprising person," Sawauchi chimed in.

"Oh yeah, that too."

"Yeah! Tooru's _full_ of surprises!"

"I am?" Kageyama said. "How?"

"I might be speaking for myself here, but you look like a pretty mean guy," Sawauchi continued, immediately putting his hands up at the sudden crease of Kageyama's forehead. "Okay, maybe not _look like,_ but you've always been famous, I mean, you have a fan club, and I always saw famous people as really mean. Plus, I heard some stories from some other Kitaichi graduates about how you used to hate the other setter on your middle school team."

Kageyama balled his hand into a fist on his lap where no one could see it. Of course other people would have heard about that.

"But my point is: that meanness was an expectation I had of you, and you smashed it with a hammer! You haven't done a single mean thing to me in all the years we've known each other, and Iwaizumi tells me that you ended up rooting for Kageyama in the end too."

"I _what?"_

"Don't even try to deny it," Iwaizumi said, "it was basically all over your face at the finals." _Oikawa was at the finals?_ "The only thing that could've made it more obvious is if you wore a Team Kageyama shirt all throughout the match and popped confetti when the fifth set ended."

"Anyway, yeah, you're a pretty unexpectedly nice guy, Oikawa," Sawauchi said before Kageyama could think too much about Oikawa watching their game against Shiratorizawa, and what he could have said to give off the impression that he was rooting for ( _Kageyama?)_ anyone at all. "You aren't famous without reason."

"That's exactly right!" Yuda declared.

"All right, good stuff," Hanamaki said, clapping slowly. "Now, Matsukawa's turn. And take this seriously, okay, no bullshit, no jokes, just genuine cheese."

"Everything I say is genuine," Matsukawa pointed out. "I only bullshit things to make you feel good about yourself because I accidentally called you cool two years ago and have to live up to it."

" _What!"_

"But what to say about Captain Tooru..." Matsukawa leaned back in his chair and smiled up at the ceiling. "Hmm, what everyone's said is completely true, of course, but if I were to add anything, I guess it'd be that you're a major dork."

The table erupted into a mix of laughter and agreement, and Kageyama (and the librarian) made a face at them. He thought of Oikawa, always smiling that smile with lidded-eyes and smirking at him and standing over him on the court. "A dork?" he repeated.

"Not in a bad way at all, of course. Such a powerful guy, appears on TV and all that, gets the girls, but one scary face from Iwaizumi and you're shaking like a schoolgirl. Your phone gallery is full of your nephew and your friends doing stuff you think is cute, and you take pictures of butterflies doing their thing on flowers. When you find colorful or patterned shirts you pair them up with colorful or patterned pants and that's just—that's really dumb, Oikawa. That's awful. Still not in a bad way, though."

"I think Oikawa's fashion sense is adorable," Hanamaki offered.

"That's because yours isn't any better," Shido said.

"Preach. But yeah, that's my piece," Matsukawa said, only grinning at Hanamaki's scowl. "Everything these guys said, plus you're a giant loser, and I'm pretty sure everyone loves that about you, Hanger."

"Hanger," the entire group echoed, marking the exact date and time in which Kageyama decided he would never understand the Aoba Johsai third years' sense of humour.

"My honest opinion of you," Hanamaki then said, stroking his not-quite chin, perhaps running his hands through a beard he hoped to have someday, "is that I wanna kick your ass, but also kick ass with you."

Every new answer was a brand new bout of confusion, Kageyama unable to understand how those two ideas could overlap. "Why's that?"

The faint twitch of Hanamaki's left eye was as obvious as it was perturbing, but if Kageyama had done something wrong, nobody called him out on it. "Well, okay, I guess the phrasing is a little cruel," he quickly amended, "but what I really mean by that is that there are things about you that freak me out sometimes, but that doesn't change the fact that we're brothers in arms. And that's completely natural, I mean, who here is perfect, or never a little annoying? But we're all still here, three years later, and I don't have any regrets. Am I right or right?"

"Right," Matsukawa supplied.

Hanamaki nodded solemnly. "And now, for the clincher." He gave a sly grin, accompanied it with some flashy arm movements before finally gesturing to Iwaizumi, who'd been mostly silent this entire time, his cheek crushed against his hand. "Best friend since childhood Hajime-kun, what can you say about our beloved captain and friend, Oikawa Tooru?"

"Don't call me that," Iwaizumi warned, but the already-minimal rage on his face vanished quickly, and he sat upright, faced Kageyama and looked him in the eye like they were speaking of a matter of life and death. His face was different from the others; no trace of a smile or fondness, all business and maybe even exasperation, but somehow it spoke volumes along with his resigned sigh. "Look, I'm not gonna lie. I've known you longer than anyone at this table and you can be a real piece of work sometimes.

“But at the same time, it’s pretty much in my wiring to give a shit about you and I don’t mind that at all.”

Kageyama felt his own eyebrows shoot up.

“You wanna know what I think about you? I think you’re fucked up,” Iwaizumi said, and quite unexpectedly, the rest of table had nothing to say, no noises to make. “You’re easily one of the most talented—no, hardworking and skilled and determined people I know, and yet you go around not knowing just how much you can do or how much you’re actually worth, and you end up losing your common sense to how afraid you are to lose. That used to piss me off to no end, and the only reason it doesn’t anymore is because you're getting better. Sure, you still want everything to be perfect and go your way, and you'll probably never be satisfied, and that’s fine. But I’m proud of the way you handled losing to Karasuno, and I’m proud that you’re focusing this much on your future even though you’re pretty much still crushed by the past—but goddamn it, Oikawa, don’t strain yourself. You spent all these three years believing in us but you never once made clear whether you believe in yourself, and you really should. You’re smart, you’re good at volleyball, you’re a great person no matter how petty you can be, so get that in your head.”

Iwaizumi paused, took a breath. “And…I’m not gonna lie. It came as a big surprise to me when you suddenly started coming to my classroom asking for help. In all my years of knowing you, I don’t think you’ve ever needed me for anything like that before, and that’s a step towards the better. But I need you to tell me you _understand_ that you can need me more often than this. I didn’t stay by your side this past decade just for you to come crawling to me for school stuff, and these guys wouldn’t be here after volleyball season if they didn’t care about you beyond your sets. If there’s something bothering you, if something’s wrong,  _tell us about it_ and we'll help you, in the same way that you help us. Stop trying to be the better person all the time. You have the right not to be. Do you understand?”

Only Iwaizumi had asked the question, but everyone around him seemed to be anticipating the answer with the same brand of seriousness, of concern, and Kageyama felt his chest getting heavy. No one had ever spoken to him in this way before, probably because he didn’t deserve it, but he’d never considered that Oikawa did. He _was_ petty, extremely temperamental, and other than that and his admirable volleyball skills, Kageyama had long since decided he wasn’t interested. But now it felt like there was so much he had to learn, so much more he had to know, and it felt exhilarating, knowing that he’d taken those first steps to connecting with Oikawa in more ways than just inhabiting his body, or asking for his tutoring, or throwing him the ball to toss.

It sent shivers running down his arms, sent an excited hammering in his chest he couldn’t comprehend, and he looked at all Oikawa’s friends gathered on the table, Oikawa’s friends who truly cared about him and gave Kageyama a reason to, as well. He took a shaky breath. “Yeah. I get it,” he said, figured that it would be like Oikawa to try and take a page out of Yuda's book when his friends were, for once, completely honest with him. “I—I love you guys.”

Yuda gave a squawk that the librarian could no longer ignore, and the group of mentally-exhausted, emotionally-stimulated third years of Aoba Johsai threw their hands over their faces and forced the laughter back into their mouths, allowing their shaking shoulders to express all their amusement for them, and Kageyama didn’t bother biting back his smile as he watched Yuda cover his reddening cheeks, and Shido press his face against his books, and Hanamaki attempt to eat his own fist, and he used the light-hearted silence to try and think of what he'd tell Oikawa when they met up tomorrow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the only thing i love more than oikage is friendship. we're 5 chapters and a thousand, thousand words away from the end, folks!! thanks for almost 400 kudos wow and more than 100 comments (the other 100 is me lolol i will reply to all of you)
> 
> a couple more pieces of content will be coming from me over the next few days btw so watch out for that. 
> 
> || [tumblr](http://kakkoweeb.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/diecrotic) | [writing journal](https://diecrotic.dreamwidth.org/) | [instagram bc why not](https://www.instagram.com/diecrotic/) ||


	13. protect this place where dreams live forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would you say their dreams are right now, though?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello i am back on my bullshit and ready to thank you guys for all your nice words and clicks on the kudos. special thanks to ao3 user [@Xeraxera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xeraxera) for being the 400th kudos and to me for being a goofball that keeps track lol. and somehow in between the last update and this one, we reached 450 as well?? i appreciate that SO HARD you guys what??? THANK YOU SO MUCH special thanks to ao3 user [@SimplePassion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplePassion/pseuds/SimplePassion) for their comment as well. it made me tear up and ugly sob i'm not even joking
> 
> [oh and here's some art again](http://nishi-key.tumblr.com/post/177648138738/fic-update-oikage-day-entry) because someone's gotta. the art is actually my oikage day entry for the royalty au theme! the link to the event page is in the notes below

 

"Hello?" Oikawa said into his phone, throwing Yamaguchi a brief glance he understood immediately.

"Tobio? Are you out of the house?"

His mother's voice contained no anger or concern—only confusion and an exhaustion Oikawa hadn't yet heard on anyone, not his teammates after an entire week of training before the tournament or his own family after a gruelling hike on a mountain. "Um, yeah," he said. "I dropped by your room earlier and told you I was going out with a teammate."

"Oh, did you? I'm sorry, it must have slipped my mind."

Oikawa frowned. He wasn't surprised, but probably still had the right to be worried. "Did you, uh, need something?"

"I was just going to ask you to pick up the groceries for me again. I forgot to tell you I had the list ready this morning. But if you're busy, I don't mind getting it myself after I finish this—"

" _No,_ no," Oikawa cut in, perhaps a little too loudly given Yamaguchi's little jump from beside him. "I'll do it. We're just about done anyway. I can be home to pick up the list in twenty minutes and I'll head out again right away."

"Okay. Thank you. I'll leave it on the fridge and leave the money on the table, as usual."

"Okay," Oikawa replied, barely managing another breath before his ear was pelted by the unforgiving dial tone and Kageyama's mother went off to continue work she was already doing nearly twenty-four hours every single day, keeping her too occupied for even a basic goodbye. He tore his phone away from his face, scowled at it like it had personally wronged him.

"Was that your parents?" Yamaguchi asked.

"Yeah, my mom," Oikawa said with a little sigh, pocketing the phone. "I have to get back home and get a list of groceries to pick up at the store. Thanks for coming with me to talk to the Neighborhood Association, though."

"No problem. See you on Monday. Good luck with your training later."

"Mm," was all Oikawa replied with, uncertain whether Kageyama had it in him to thank someone in two consecutive sentences and far too aggravated to get a proper goodbye out himself, thinking of the woman at home with her eyes glued to the screen, completely oblivious to the fact that her only companion in the house had been gone for a good hour since they sat together for breakfast.

She was a wreck. Oikawa didn't know how else he could possibly put it. Kageyama's mother was a _wreck_. She left home early in the morning and returned late in the evening on weekdays and on the weekends, two days out of seven that she didn't have to put on a suit and make a commute to sit herself at an office desk all day, she sat herself at a home office desk all day, either working or reading or taking a quick nap she didn't allow herself to move to bed for. Her schedule was as packed as Oikawa's had been, back when he was still legal in the volleyball club, only she wasn't spending half her day getting both her mind and body to work and releasing endorphins and building camarederie. She was holed up, alone, catching radiation from a screen, typing in words that meant nothing to her outside of how much money she could get out of them.

All that hard, stressful work and Oikawa still wasn't quite sure what it was she was doing. Suddenly Kageyama's lack of knowledge couldn't be considered so strange.

The woman was tired. It was clear enough to Oikawa even though he only saw her at most a few hours in the dark of night on regular days, and he wasn't sure what there was for him to do, other than to be at her beck and call, cater to her every whim, entertain everything she asked of him because it honestly wasn't much, considering she was his mother of the moment. Back at home, Oikawa's own mother would always have something for him to do, always have something to ask that would prompt him to begin a barrage of stories. Kageyama's mother refused his attempts to so much as rinse plates.

"I can handle it," she'd say, but Oikawa wasn't saying she couldn't. Was it really so strange for people in this part of town, people in that quiet house, to accept help from those who had much of it to give?

His return to that house was as unglamorous as ever, his call of, "I'm home," feeble and half-hearted, knowing that no one was listening even more so than when his mom wasn't home. Oikawa moved to the kitchen to find everything exactly where she said they would be, a little note tacked to the refrigerator door and just enough cash set on the table, eliminating any need for him to go upstairs to pay her a visit, check how she was doing, like he didn't have the opportunity to do that every other moment of his life, like he didn't deserve it. Part of him still wanted to. It was only several stair steps away. But even that desire made him feel gloomy, along with the very likely possibility that nothing would come out of climbing those steps anyway. Nothing ever did.

Oikawa grimaced. The long-lasting silence and dreary mood of all his temporary home's rooms were getting to him; disgusting. In an effort to chase away the bitter taste on his tongue, all the negative energy he felt floating around his head where there used to be good vibes, his hand flew down to his pocket and took out his phone, moved to click on the one and only contact he'd called these last few weeks.

It was natural for him to be concerned, inhabiting Kageyama's body and living his sort of lonely life. But that didn't mean he had to shoulder it alone and Kageyama was in the clear, frolicking in Oikawa's house. He held the phone to his ear.

"Oikawa-san?" came the voice on the other line.

"A simple 'hello' would've sufficed, Tobio-chan, you know it's me," Oikawa said.

"Okay, hello." Oikawa rolled his eyes. "What's going on?"

"You busy?"

"I'm studying."

Oikawa parted his lips to speak, but they ultimately betrayed him, curled into a smile before he could make words. "Well, take a break for a while," he managed, after a half-assed mental threat to his own facial muscles. "Your mom wants me to go out for grocery-shopping for the billionth week in a row and I'm tired of doing your chores for you all alone."

A very hearty groan sounded from Kageyama's end, like the prospect of going out for shopping was as familiar as it was incredibly sickening at this point. "Do I really have to?"

"Yes."

"I don't tell you to come over when your mom asks me to take out the trash."

"Because you're not prepared to explain why some stranger is suddenly reaching into our bins and hauling the bags out to the dumpster," Oikawa said, far too amused that Kageyama'd bothered to argue, and with that ridiculous logic. It was hard to believe the guy was studying his ass off every chance he got. "We're already going to meet up later anyway. Might as well do it now so I won't be left doing all your dirty work."

"Oh, you got to talk to the Neighborhood Association for their gym?"

"Yeah, it's a public gym, and they only really have clearance to use it for a few hours every weekend and today, they're letting us use their slot, so make sure you thank them properly. But that's for later. Are you coming or what?"

The sigh that followed made it clear that Kageyama knew Oikawa would only _really_ accept one answer. Good. "Let's just meet at the store. I'm not dressed yet."

"Fine. See you then."

"Yeah."

 _Bye_ , was just about ready to roll off Oikawa's tongue but he bit it back, kept it there until dial tone was ringing in his ears for the second time today, his second conversation with a member of the Kageyama family today. In a lot of ways, the son was just like his mother over the phone. Succinct, to the point, didn't follow standard conversational protocols like greetings and goodbyes. It was an odd habit to pass down in the family but Oikawa could understand how it happened. What he didn't understand was why he cared so much.

Kageyama's mother's case made a little bit more sense. She thought she was talking to her son and yet her utterances contained no affection and barely any hint of the closeness they had sixteen years and counting to develop. But he and Kageyama didn't have a reason to be buddy-buddy over the phone. They never did, especially not during the years Oikawa had spent cursing Kageyama's genius and practicing derogatory faces to show him, in the mirror alone at home. And there certainly wasn't any reason for them to start now.

Right?

As far as he could see, not much had changed. Sure, they were visiting each other's houses and hadn't had a legitimate argument in a while and were meeting up for a quick grocery trip before proceeding to a public gym to play volleyball together, not for the first time, but they were still Oikawa and Kageyama, destined enemies, oil and water, the light and the shadow. Kageyama's talent was still out of this world, Kageyama himself was still blunt, a bit of an airhead sometimes, and he was...ugly...and—and—

Oikawa froze mid-step, gawked at nothing in the middle of the street. Something was wrong. He'd always been a veteran at badmouthing Kageyama, so good at it he could probably start a club and win a tournament. Where were the mean words and why were they no longer flowing naturally into his sentences?

An incredibly long _whaaaat_ echoing in Oikawa's mind, he tore himself away from the sidewalk and leaned against a nearby fence, telling himself this wasn't a matter that he needed to chew his fingernails off for but keeping his finger close to his lips anyway. What were the mean things he used to say about Kageyama? 'Stupid'. Yeah, that was one. It was more of a blanket phrase for his hatred but it could also easily refer to his irresponsibility in school and subsequent failing grades. Kageyama was stupid— _was_ stupid, something inside Oikawa amended, because right now Kageyama was studying as often as he breathed for tests that weren't his to worry about and degrading his intelligence wouldn't be very kind to either of them.

 _There it was again._ Oikawa tapped his lips with a fingernail. What other things did he used to say?

That Kageyama was awkward and unfeeling, he remembered. He was a wreck in his latter years of middle school and never made a lot of friends, not the kind that stayed because they wanted to anyway, and he never bothered to choose his words, almost like he didn't know that his tone and his honesty would have consequences, almost like he didn't really give a damn about relationships, almost like he didn't know how to deal with people very well at all. It made him a robot with no heart, and Oikawa always used to find that amusing.

But he could still feel the cold of home on his skin, the silence and the darkness every single night he unlocked the front door, and decided that _he_ would be the most unfeeling monster of all if he consciously made a joke out of it. _Damn it._

Talent. Oikawa moved his hand away from his face. Now _that_ was uncontestable. Kageyama had an annoying sort of luck on his side, a talent that made the otherwise impossible easy for him to do. His accuracy was that of a machine, and on the court he could pick little tips and tricks up in the same amount of time he used to watch them, and that was, without a doubt, unfair, and something that Oikawa could never deny he hated.

But there was more. The idea planted in his brain, from middle school up until god knew when but it was recent, was that Kageyama was a king that reclined in his chair and sipped lemonade while the commonfolk wielding only weapons of persistence sweated themselves to death. He didn't need to put in a lot of work, and indeed didn't. Or so Oikawa thought, before he started hearing things like, "If you just want to do some extra, you could always wait until ours is over and then start your own private practice. You've done it before, right?" from Kageyama's teammates, and then some from Kageyama himself:

_Do you know how much time I spent with the ball back when I was in elementary? Did you know how many times I went to school with bandaids on the face because I kept hitting myself? I worked hard to become a proper player. I worked hard to toss well. I worked hard to learn the jump serve after you said you'd never teach me._

_What_ genius _are you talking about?_

Shit. Oikawa threw a hand over his face, his mind drifting back to Kageyama's room with sports magazines on the shelves, worn running and volleyball shoes stowed away in the closet, and the ball itself always sitting comfortably close to the bed.

He didn't have any more juice.

His opinion of Kageyama actually _improved._

Keeping a hand over his mouth, Oikawa tried to ignore his skin warming up, tried to focus on making it to the grocery store in one piece and racking his brain for ice breakers, pre-prepared conversations to have with Kageyama _the entire fucking afternoon_ that would allow him to conceal how awkward and weird and tingly he kind of felt at the moment.

 

* * *

 

Oikawa was being weird.

He was the one who'd hauled Kageyama out in the first place, interrupting a fruitful morning of study just so he didn't have to suffer through weekly shopping alone, but he had the nerve to look aggravated, like he'd been wronged by the universe itself and couldn't function the way he normally did. He was uncharacteristically quiet, avoiding all eye contact, his face stuck in a permanent scowl—it was everything Kageyama's teammates told him _he_ was like, but there was no reason for Oikawa to be so in-character if it was just going to be the two of them the entire afternoon.

"Uh, Oikawa-san, aren't you taking the role-playing a little too seriously right now?" Kageyama said.

It was half a joke half completely serious; Kageyama wasn't quite sure how that worked, but even more incomprehensible was its effect on Oikawa. The furrow of his brows only grew deeper, a single corner of his mouth flicking up before Oikawa seemed to desperately pull it back into a frown and also fail, his nostrils flaring as he unattractively chewed on his lips looking just about ready to explode. He stole a glance at Kageyama (who was, internally, screaming _what the fuck)_ and gave up entirely, covered his face so only his eyes were visible.

"So you've become self-aware, huh? _You're_ the one who's role-playing too hard here," Oikawa muttered, glaring at the road ahead. "How dare you try to be funny."

From the looks of it, Kageyama did more than just try, but he didn't want to know what other ugly faces his body could make while they were in public and entering a grocery store that saw him on the regular. He held the door open for Oikawa, took but a second to raise an eyebrow at the scoff of offense, and slipped through the doorway himself.

It didn't seem like Oikawa was in any condition to be reading, so Kageyama didn't bother complaining when his mother's list was shoved into his hands in a wordless demand that he take the lead. They went through aisle after aisle without much conversation, Oikawa still intent on examining literally every other thing in the place apart from Kageyama, going so far as to linger by the cheese section and attempt to sniff the more exotic kinds even through their assorted packaging.

Kageyama sighed, all but recklessly dropping the eggs into the shopping cart. "Oikawa-san," he called from a distance, "can you not smell cheese and go get bath soap instead? We still have to drop this off at home before practice."

Oikawa frowned and petulantly harrumphed, but walked off anyway. Hopefully to the soap section.

Once he disappeared, Kageyama shook his head. He hadn't been completely happy to be prematurely pulled away from his textbooks but he did make the mistake of thinking this would be minimally enjoyable, leaving the house and hanging out with Oikawa even just over produce and frozen meat, because everything else they'd been doing together as of late was enjoyable. It wasn't like before, when seeing Oikawa only made him tense up and straighten up his spine in an effort to look respectable. They joked around now, they'd eaten food together, texted—everything Kageyama never had the opportunity to try with anyone else. He thought their relationship had changed, or at the very least, Oikawa had moved on from his routine of snarking everytime Kageyama was within ten feet.

But perhaps he was wrong, and he wasn't any better at reading people—Oikawa, in particular—as he had been before their souls switched. That was a little disheartening.

With a nonchalant shrug that no one in particular was around to see, he took the eggs back into his hands and examined the poor things for cracks, wondered if he should put them back and choose another tray to put into the cart right as Oikawa returned, silently, with a small box of soap in his hand. He placed it in the cart without running it by for approval, and that would've been fine, really, if the box wasn't familiar and pink and covered in pictures of blue flowers and not at all like the soap Kageyama liked to use—in fact, was that—?

"Is this the soap you have in your bathroom?" Kageyama asked, picking the thing up and turning it around in his hands.

"You mean in my actual house? Yeah."

Kageyama sniffed the thing and shuddered. This was it, all right; he could recognize that strong, fruity kind of smell anywhere. "Why'd you choose this?"

"It smells good," Oikawa responded, looking at Kageyama as if _he_ was the odd one in this situation.

"This does _not_ smell good. It's too obvious and it makes my nose itch."

"What, you think the one at your house is any better? It barely smells like anything at all. Come on, this'll be an improvement for you."

Grimacing, Kageyama glanced at Oikawa's assured expression and stole another whiff of the 'improvement soap', tried to analyze the scent with a more objective standpoint. He definitely didn't like it, but it wasn't _all_ bad, and it sort of reminded him of the new familiarity of Oikawa's bathroom, now home to pleasant memories like the glorious shower heater and its capabilities. He sighed, tossed it back in the cart. "Fine. But we're getting milk next."

"Is that supposed to be your prize for making a good decision?" Oikawa remarked with a tiny smile, but gloat or not, it was better than his constant silence and Kageyama's mood lightened considerably as they left their current aisle.

And lightened even more when they reached the dairy section, the cartons of milk looking excellent all stacked next to each other and bathed in display lights. Oikawa had given him permission to buy milk on his birthday but he didn't let himself buy too much, still intent on staying in-character in front of his parents, and the sacrifice had him craving more than ever before. He stepped close and stared at each of the brands and flavours hard, thought hard about what to get even though technically he wouldn’t be the one drinking. It was a bit of a damper to the mood, but it didn’t quite stop him from picking up as many boxes as his heart cried out for and putting them all in the cart without hesitation, encouraged by the BIG SALE! sign hanging above the freezer.

Oikawa looked appalled. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing? You don’t expect me to drink _this_ much milk within a single week, do you?”

“It’s not that much.”

“ _Not that_ —Tobio.” Oikawa moved towards the cart, tried to grab all of the boxes with his hands and failed. He set them all back down with a grimace. “How many days do you think there are in the week? When do these expire? Does your mom account for all this in her budget?”

“It’s fine, it’s on sale,” Kageyama assured, pointing up at the sign.

“That’s not the only issue! I barely even got to drink a single box a week back at home in my body. I can’t finish all of this!”

Kageyama frowned. “Wait, what? You don’t drink milk regularly?” he asked, staring down at the body he was inhabiting and wondering how it got into the shape it was in without the help of the nutrients found in his favourite drink. “It’s really good for you, you know. It’s got a lot of calcium, and protein and phosphorus and magnesium and potassium and vitamins. And zinc. It’s good for the bones and the heart, and it even helps build muscle and protect you against cancer. And it’s delicious. So you should really start drinking.”

They were all cold hard facts, but somehow they were making Oikawa laugh again, his eyes looking frenzied as he struggled to conceal his smile. It worked for all of two seconds until he was snorting and hiding his wide grin and crinkled eyes away. Kageyama wished he wouldn’t. “Did you—did you just give me a milk sales pitch? Where did you even learn all this? You’re ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as he bent over and arranged all the milk boxes in a line in the cart. “Fine, whatever. Wouldn’t want all your bones suddenly breaking at training because they lack milk. But I’m taking some of this to school so I won’t need any from the vending machine anymore.”

“Okay, thanks!” Kageyama said, a little louder than he’d intended.

Oikawa glanced up at him, snorted. “The simplest things make you happy, huh?” he noted, gave a short laugh. “This kind of reminds me of before, when my dad saw this discounted pack of condiments we didn’t need and really wanted to buy it. He and my mom fought for fifteen minutes before my mom finally gave in and he was so happy he bought us all lunch after.”

He hadn’t pegged Oikawa’s father as the type to do that kind of thing, but the warmth and fondness he could sense out of Oikawa himself convinced Kageyama regardless, made him feel a different kind of warmth as well, one borne out of seeing Oikawa tell him something he didn’t need to ask about. Just like he wanted, exactly what he’d anticipated as he left the house earlier today. Maybe agreeing hadn’t been a terrible decision (and maybe he was a little right about the nature of their relationship) after all.

But then he thought about it, paused, raised an eyebrow at Oikawa. “We...” he began, “we remind of you of your parents right now?”

“Hmm? Uh, yeah, I guess that’s another way to put it.”

It honestly wouldn’t be an issue, if not for the fact that they were two teenage boys with a grudge a month ago and Oikawa’s parents were a married couple with three children. And Oikawa seemed to realize this too, or at least Kageyama figured he did, because his curious face transitioned into one of realization and then one of a not-so-mild sort of horror, making him look like he’d left the stove on at home hours ago and that his house was probably burning as much as Kageyama’s ears felt like they were at the moment.

“Never mind, I take it back, that didn’t happen, I was lying,” Oikawa said, and Kageyama only now became aware he was covering the bottom half of his face again, once more looking at anything other than Kageyama and their cart. “Go get the rest of the stuff on your list. I—I want to go look at the cheese again.”

They’d come full circle, but this time, Kageyama didn’t complain. He clutched his list tightly in his hands and let Oikawa do whatever, headed off to a section far away from the cheese in the hope that he could calm himself a little before they had to play volleyball together.

 

* * *

 

The walk back to Kageyama’s house was painful—but a different kind of painful, Kageyama noted. It felt odd, like he wanted to dig a hole and just kind of lie in it for a while, contemplating his crippling inadequacy when it came to conversation. He could feel himself wanting to talk but had absolutely no topic (how’s the weather? What would you say is a good life?) and no confidence to start. Oikawa was the initiator when it came to the talk, but he was still making this weird face that made Kageyama’s body look like it was hiding something in its mouth.

They made good time getting back home, though, and for a while, Kageyama was able to forget this unfamiliar quiet with Oikawa enough to relish in the too-familiar quiet of his living room and kitchen. It hadn’t been _that_ long since he last saw this place but it certainly felt like it. He wasn’t about to get sentimental or anything but he did notice himself touching and leaning on things he never bothered to before, staring at his usual drinking glass a little longer than he should’ve, listening for any sign of his mother doing work upstairs when it never used to matter.

And Oikawa allowed him all this. His uncharacteristic silence blended into the house’s perfectly, and Kageyama hardly noticed that he was already placing groceries in the cupboards and the refrigerator. By the time he did, all that was left to store was half his milk and the vegetables in the crisper, and as he pulled himself together enough to help, he couldn’t help but think how much worse Oikawa must have missed _his_ home. He’d only been there once this entire time and needed to climb through the window to enter and leave. He hadn’t been allowed to see his parents either. That had to be hard. Kageyama wondered what he could do.

“Ready to go?” Oikawa asked, his first words in a while, once the groceries were all stowed away and he'd managed to retrieve the ball from Kageyama's room.

“Yeah.”

Oikawa skipped the last stair step, seemed to frown as he landed. “Went to your mom’s room to tell her the groceries are all set,” he said, “but she was asleep. In front of her computer. Again.”

“Yeah, she does that a lot,” was all Kageyama could contribute, unable to tear his focus away from the frustration taking over Oikawa’s face. “Are you okay, Oikawa-san?”

With a startled blink and a lock of gazes, the emotion faded off of Oikawa’s face to be replaced by—something else Kageyama couldn’t quite pinpoint. Oikawa stared dead into his eyes and slightly narrowed his own, his chin slowly rising with all the subtlety and yet in ways Kageyama could never miss. “Yeah. I’m good,” he said, walking past Kageyama and towards the door, muttering something unintelligible.

“What did you say?”

“Didn’t say anything. Let’s go.”

They headed out, locking the door behind them but holding the silence that came from within on a leash to accompany them on their walk. Oikawa stared dead ahead, or so Kageyama saw through the corner of his eye, spun and threw the ball up every now and again, and didn't say a single word. But this kind of quiet was different too, nowhere as tense as before they reached home and more contemplative in nature, busier, but not in aspects that anyone other than Oikawa himself could ever identify. It was confusing, how many variations of a silent journey the two of them could experience in a single afternoon, but Oikawa was like that sometimes. Kageyama never knew what to expect.

It was kind of nice, actually. He kept everyone on their toes and didn't allow a single dull moment. For all Oikawa's many eccentricities, Kageyama liked that about him.

Which was good, probably, because right as Kageyama caught sight of the cheap sign that read 'Public Gymnasium' from a distance, Oikawa threw the ball up a little higher and passed it to him without warning. He felt himself start but he caught it regardless and looked at Oikawa, just as wordlessly imploring him for an explanation. Oikawa took a breath to give one.

“Did you know that you and Tsukishima like the same band?”

Or not. " _What?"_ Kageyama forgot to keep walking for a moment, frowned. “I like a band?” he asked.

Oikawa stopped for a moment too, snorted. “Okay, fine, not ‘like’. I saw them in your playlist and I happened to see it on Tsukishima’s playlist too. And Yamaguchi said that it was his favorite band, so you listen to his favorite band. Just thought you should know.”

For what reason, Kageyama couldn’t guess, but he only nodded. “Thanks?” he said.

“Also Yacchan’s mother—“

“You call her _Yacchan?”_

“Just in my head, relax. Anyway, Yacchan’s mother works for a design firm, so she’s really good at art and photo-editing and things. She has one of those fancy professional cameras—a gift from her mom for her thirteenth birthday so that she could start learning tricks with it. She hasn’t used it much, though, aside from a bit of nature photography and for school festival and the volleyball club.”

Kageyama’s jaw was slack. “Uhh, okay?”

“Yamaguchi chose to play volleyball because he thought the guys who played the other sports were scary. I don’t know where he got the idea that people who play volleyball _aren’t_ scary, but whatever. Oh, and he has a thing for soggy french fries.”

“Uh—“

“And your little shrimp saw like ten seconds of the Small Giant on TV and decided his career path right then and there. He’s such a kid. But apparently he’s the oldest among all of you first years. Who would’ve guessed?”

“Oikawa-san—“

“His little sister’s cute, though. I bet five hundred yen she’s going to end up taller than him.”

“Oikawa-san, where did you get all this information?” Kageyama demanded, his pace slowed down by his own confusion.

“From the black market; where else?” Oikawa said, rolling his eyes as Kageyama jogged to keep up with him. “They told me, of course.”

“Why?”

“I asked.”

“ _Why?”_

“Because _you_ don’t—“ Oikawa turned to face Kageyama, somehow still walking despite that “—so _I_ might as well.” 

He whirled around again, facing the proper direction as they walked now, not like it mattered, seeing as he was but a few steps from the gymnasium door. Kageyama felt himself get a little cold, seeing the building so close, never mind that Oikawa had just bombarded him with fun facts about his teammates. He was going to be hitting Oikawa’s tosses again, and in an actual court—no snow, no passing bicycles—and with an actual net. He was glad that Oikawa took responsibility of opening the door to the dimly-lit corridor lined with benches that led to the gym. He wasn't sure he could keep his hand from shaking if he tried, especially once the sound of squeaking shoes and familiar, joyously shouting voices echoed in the hall, along with the bounce of the ball against the wooden floor.

“I didn’t tell them it was you coming with me, by the way,” Oikawa said as they neared the entryway.

Kageyama tensed. “Wait, what?” he demanded. “They don’t know you’re going to be here? They’re going to interview me for sure!”

“Make me look good, okay?”

_“How.”_

Oikawa didn't bother with an answer. Stepping forward and into the light of the court, he took a breath, bowed. “Good afternoon!” he called loudly. “Pardon the intrusion!”

Shimada and Takinoue in particular started at the sound of his voice, probably recognizing it as Kageyama’s. “Oh, hey, Kageyam— _OHH._ ”

But their large smiles quickly changed into wide gapes and their excited eyes only further exhibiting their excitement the moment Oikawa’s body fell into their view. He’d never seen them look at him like that before; Kageyama tried not to look too uncomfortable, tried his hand at a small smile like Oikawa probably would before lowering his own head out of courtesy (and as a defense mechanism, but nobody needed to know that).

“OHH. WHOA. WAIT,” Takinoue cried, approaching them with eager yet hesitant steps. He couldn’t quite decide whom he really wanted to be looking at. “Kageyama—you—you’re here with Oikawa? _You’re practicing with Oikawa?”_

“Yes,” Oikawa replied, throwing Kageyama a sideways glance and then proceeding to make a sound like he’d just choked on his own spit attempting to say something else.

Kageyama’s entire system seemed to overload in the span of a single second. “Uh, yes,” he said, as Oikawa coughed by his side. “I’m just...doing my kouhai Tobio-chan a little favor, that’s all. Since he begged so hard.”

He was going to have to throw up before they started practicing and that was _without_ accurate line delivery, but Oikawa’s wide eyes and enth suppressed smile for the day as he recovered from his little mishap was sort of worth it. “I didn’t _beg,_ Oikawa-san,” he protested, trying a little too hard to look and sound angry.

“Sure you didn’t,” Kageyama said, and Oikawa’s only response was to cover his face and turn away.

“Well, regardless, whoa, this is a...” Shimada said, rubbing the back of his head as he made his way toward them, “this is a really big surprise. Kind of like an honor at this point.” He gave a short laugh. “I’m Shimada, by the way. And this here’s Takinoue, and the rest of the team over there. You play really well, Oikawa-kun. Every game we see you in is intense as hell!”

Kageyama knew that better than anybody—and way better than Oikawa, probably, who’d recovered from his momentary bout of embarrassment blended with amusement and was now looking at Shimada like he’d just given out the winning numbers for the lottery. “Oh. Well—thank you very much,” Kageyama said, shortly dipping his head again. What else did people say when they were complimented? “I’m, um, glad you think so.”

“Wouldn’t think it if it wasn’t true,” Shimada said.

“Yeah. You do some really good things out there,” Takinoue added. “That serve? Insane! I probably wouldn’t be able to get your basic one, and that offensive serve is just out of the question. Don’t even get us started on your tossing.”

Oikawa was visibly looking a little pink now, shoving his hands in his pockets and nonchalantly looking around like it would hide how flattered he probably was, and Kageyama didn’t think he’d ever been this grateful to Karasuno’s greatest supporters before. “Thank you very much,” he repeated. “I’m still hoping to keep getting better from here.”

“And you will, no question about that! Ah, but we’d hate to hold you up. The gym’s all yours,” Shimada said, gesturing to the space that the other members of the association had just vacated. “Is this going to be a private practice, or...?”

“Private, if it’s okay,” Kageyama answered once it was clear Oikawa was in no condition to.

“Yeah, no problem. Go for it. We’ll get out of your way.”

“Keep it friendly,” Takinoue added as the two of them, plus the last few that had stayed to wait and send friendly waves Kageyama and Oikawa’s way, grabbed their things and headed out.

That was easier than Kageyama had expected. He let out a sigh of relief, took in the sight of an entire empty court they had all to themselves, and looked to Oikawa to tell him to warm up only to find him still in a state of disarray from the conversation. Like it was such a surprise that people acknowledged how good he was.

He breathed out when they locked eyes. “First of all,” Oikawa said, “this role-playing business is going to be the death of me. Remind me never to have an in-character conversation with you ever again; it makes my insides want to explode.” That was understandable. He took another breath after Kageyama’s shrug. “And second—“

Oikawa paused, took another breath to continue before ending up stopping altogether, using a curled up fist to cover his mouth like he was ready for another coughing fit. But that was fine. “You’re happy that people other than your teammates really admire your playing, I know,” Kageyama supplied instead, turning away from Oikawa’s blatant ‘how did you know?’ expression and heading for the mops. “Good.”

He barely got any further before a quiet, “Rude,” was sounding from behind him—a word he’d heard a thousand times before, albeit not in his voice, but the effect wasn’t quite the same today. And, now that he thought about it, it hadn’t been for a rather long time now. That was good too.

 

* * *

 

The first time that the ball hit his palm that entire afternoon, Kageyama almost forgot to land on his feet properly.

He had Oikawa practicing with the bottle at first, honing his skills of visualization and estimation, but the more he watched the ball miss target after target, the more he itched, the more he became aware that he was geared-up and yearning to move and yet not getting any of the action himself. He’d asked Oikawa if he could practice with a real spiker instead, then, and after a short debate and a, “Swear to me you won’t lie and make it seem like I pinpointed your palm when I really didn’t, Tobio. Don’t you _dare_ chase the ball on purpose,” from Oikawa—serious in his conviction to learn this toss and perform it as well as Kageyama did—Kageyama was finally permitted to spike.

Permitted, but not able, however, as Oikawa was still very much just learning the ropes and not a single ball managed to cross paths with Kageyama’s hand at the exact moment it should have. It was kind of frustrating, actually, being so close to the ball and not being able to hit it, and often Kageyama found himself gritting his teeth to keep from complaining. He channelled that anger instead, used it to tell himself that he would never make any of his spikers feel like this, and if Oikawa was trying twice as hard to be better than he already was then Kageyama had to try four times more.

And right as he thought that, he jumped, and with his swing came the smack of his hand against rubber and an exhilaration that could last a lifetime.

As the ball landed on the opposite side of the net and gave a few bounces, Kageyama looked to Oikawa, who still had his hands raised in the toss, his face a picture of spirits lifted higher than any ball could go.

“Wah!” he cried, like suddenly speaking actual words was too complex an activity for his brain.

“You did it,” Kageyama said.

“Wah!” Oikawa cried again, pointing at the ball and then looking at his hands and then at Kageyama. “You—you didn’t chase after that, did you?”

“Nope. It came to me dead-on. I wasn’t even looking.”

“ _Waah,_ ” Oikawa screamed, drawing the syllable out and turning into some kind of half-sob, half war cry as he clutched at his hair and spun around. “Finally! Shit! I’m so tired! One more, though, one more!”

“If you’re tired, shouldn’t you take a break—“

“ _No._ One more. Same position. Slower this time, so you can see if it’ll stop.”

With a small sigh (it wasn’t like he was any less enthusiastic when it came down to it, anyway), Kageyama retrieved the ball from the other side and took position for his run up. Oikawa was breathing hard next to the net, though probably out of stimulation more than the effort, and at his brief nod Kageyama sent the ball over and looked nowhere but ahead, concentrated on his timing and the height of his jump and the swing of his arm, and almost like magic, the ball was coming into view, right on his point of impact though not quite stopping there just yet, but he hit it anyway, couldn’t help but feel like if he and Oikawa were in an actual game (he and Oikawa, in an _actual game)_ right now the point would have scored and the crowd would have risen to their feet.

He fell on his, tried not to look so excited when he turned to Oikawa once more. “I don’t think it stopped, and it isn’t as fast as mine yet, but your aim is good,” he said.

Oikawa groaned. One out of three in a single afternoon wasn’t enough, apparently. “I’m going back to practicing on the bottles. You take a break. Tell me if you see me doing something wrong, though.”

“Sure.” Kageyama stepped away from the net as Oikawa ducked under it to get the ball back, and headed back to where their bags were laid for a drink of water and a customary phone check. It wasn’t something he did with his own phone, back in his own body, but Oikawa’s life was a lot grander and a lot more interactive than his was, messages exploding no matter the time of day he left it idle for at least thirty minutes, whether from family or friends or from all the ridiculous applications he’d downloaded for no good reason. He kept his eyes on Oikawa even while he chugged the contents of his bottle, watched Oikawa expertly throw the ball up as if to mimic a receive and then move into the ideal setting form, before rummaging inside his bag for the ever-vibrating device.

There were a lot of messages, as expected, a lot of them from Makki, but the wall of notifications looked different today—something that could be attributed to, Kageyama realized, the two emails sitting at the top of the stack, the preview text containing the familiar name of a university.

Kageyama’s heart skipped a beat, and with two hands he unlocked the phone and opened the email app, with eager eyes quickly skimmed the contents of both emails sent a few hours apart and felt them squeezing at his chest, pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Tobio, what the hell are you doing? Your water’s spilling all over the place!”

He started at the sound of Oikawa’s voice, but he didn’t hear anything other than the quiet voice in his head, echoing, repeating the words that both emails had in common over and over again. “Oikawa-san,” was all he managed.

Oikawa looked troubled, still standing by the net. “Uhh, are you okay? You seem kind of…happier than normal.”

Unsure just how to state how happy he _really_ was without scaring Oikawa away, Kageyama bit his lip and held the phone out.

It still scared Oikawa a little bit, probably, but at the very least he approached, apprehension clear on his face as he kept his eyes on Kageyama’s as if waiting for him to suddenly erupt. When he did finally look down at the emails, however, when he finally read them, when he finally understood, all that hesitation melted away—knitted eyebrows making way for rising ones, narrowed eyes making way for large, glassy ones that reflected the screen as well a euphoria only Kageyama could detect in that moment, slightly parted lips pursing together, allowing his throat one quick and deep swallow before he opened them again to breath, to scream:

“ _Sports scholarship?”_

The words were music to Kageyama’s ears. “Uh-huh.”

“From—from _two_ universities?”

“Yeah.”

Oikawa’s breath hitched. “But— _why?”_

Kageyama only shrugged. “Why not?”

That seemed to kill any more of Oikawa’s follow-ups. He threw a hand over his mouth, looked like he wanted to throw his phone thirty feet away and also never let it go for anything at the same time, and let out a giddy, high-pitched scream as he screwed his eyes shut, fell onto his heels on the ground and tucked his head in his knees. It took all that Kageyama had to resist the urge to do the same, to keep his uncontrollable desire to smile steady (as far as Oikawa knew, he didn’t have any reason to be happy, but _damn,_ he was _so_ happy—the plan worked, it actually worked, it—) and hopefully, transforming back into a regular face by the time Oikawa managed to recover.

He wasn’t exactly recovered as he got up, but he was no longer screaming, and after a deep breath he was handing his phone to Kageyama and returning to his previous post, picking up the ball and smacking it with a single hand so hard that it bounced back up beyond the height of the net, and then holding it in his hands, spinning it with a competent grin. He pointed a finger at Kageyama. “I'm going to read those in more detail later, but right now, ask me if I’m ready to perfect this toss,” he ordered.

With a half-hearted roll of the eyes, Kageyama complied. “Are you ready to perfect this toss?”

Oikawa held the ball up to his chest. “I was born ready.”

He threw it up once more, and Kageyama snorted as he jogged over for a closer look. And Oikawa had the nerve to call _him_ a simpleton.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fic itself also doubles as my [oikage day](https://oikageday.tumblr.com/) entry for the free prompt! these events are seriously the best motivation. late entries are always welcome, if you’re only now hearing about it and are interested!
> 
> also! if you're interested in having an oikage big bang again this year (and here's the [link to last year's big bang](https://oikagebigbang.tumblr.com/)), the mod is [gauging interest](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdIXtOaqGMiJKJ9G9BBeN_BGaR6UzRQgMndiQ3F4wTuEDkmlA/viewform) right now, so go and give them a hello!
> 
> || [tumblr](http://kakkoweeb.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/diecrotic) | [writing updates](http://kakkoweeb.tumblr.com/writing) | [instagram bc why not](https://www.instagram.com/diecrotic/) ||


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